


A Prelude to Morning

by chrysanthemumsies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Basically a crack!fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Twilight AU, Vampire!Lock, or for you brits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthemumsies/pseuds/chrysanthemumsies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m absolutely positive about three things. Well, mostly positive. </p><p>First, my flatmate isn’t human. While any passerby with a link to his blog and a vendetta could verify that, my reasonings are a bit more in depth. No, he's a vampire, and the hilariously-cliché brooding type to boot.</p><p>Second - well, this might be wishful thinking, but I’m rather sure he wants to kill me. No more than I want to kill him, I’m sure, but it makes for paranoia every time he leans in too close, lips a little too cool and tantalizing against my skin.</p><p>Which brings me to my third point: I think I’ve developed a bit of a crush on him. May my soul find salvation.</p><p>.</p><p>Yes, yes, this is a Johnlock fic in the Twilight universe. Strap your seatbelts, this is going to be a fun ride. Former title was "and above my throat", decided to switch it out for something #edgier. IF YOU'VE READ THIS BEFORE, reread it! I've changed a few details, as well as edited every last sentence of the thing, and CHANGED A PLOT POINT IN CHAPTER 10! Off hiatus. Let's go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. preface

Back in Afghanistan, there were a straightforward set of rules.

Heal soldiers, don’t get shot. Transfer medical supplies, don’t get shot. Try to sleep at night, don’t get shot. Whenever possible, endeavor to shoot at the enemy, but also while not getting shot.

John Watson, in response, was a straightforward man. Emphasis (usually) on the ‘straight’, mind you.

So why was he in this situation?

“Patience, John,” the hunter sang, voice smooth as honey. The baser of John’s instincts told him to run, even when the rest of his body urged him to yield. It wasn’t his fault; the damn monster was built precisely to lure him in.  

A hand swiped at John’s temple and came back bloody. The hunter inspected it with unmasked delight. “This is just a game, you see. He’s the reward, while unfortunately you’re the price. No hard feelings.”

His tongue darted out to his fingers, and the grin turned manic. “Until then, let’s have some fun, shall we?”

Fuck. No, let’s not.

_Sherlock._


	2. first sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, of all times and all places, that’s where John first saw Sherlock Holmes. Cup forgotten in his hands, John couldn’t help but pause – and that’s what would usually happen, was it not? When seeing someone so unbelievably beautiful, that’s what you would do, right? Stop and stare and hold on for dear life.

“Yeah, Harry, I’m _fine,"_ John insisted, maneuvering his flat keys with his phone and cane, groceries hooked around one elbow.

 _“I’m not asking if you’re_ fine, _Johnny. Just if you need somewhere to crash for a bit.”_

He squeezed the phone between his shoulder and ear, but nothing could stop the cane from falling over, his hands grappling thin air. He cursed lightly under his breath. “Yeah, and ‘fine’ is my answer to that. Really. Mum already offered, and my answer was the same. I’ve already got a flat, anyways.” With a sharp jab with his good knee, the door opened. John shuffled the cane inside and kicked the door back closed.

A sigh. _“Because mum is obviously your favorite person on Earth. You couldn’t possibly say no to her, is that right?”_

Classic.  “Not what I said,” John said lightly, shedding at the table. Scooping up the cane, John tapped the phone on speaker and cursed even louder when it wouldn’t compute. “Damn phone.”

His sister’s voice came out in broken waves. _“Phone_ –kerzh- _issues? If you_ –kerzh- _I can give_ –kerzh- _mobile.”_

John switched back to handheld, stabbing the button out of spite. “I would love a new phone, actually. I have nothing else to offer you, unless you want me to cook you up some gourmet frozen fish fingers.”

_“I’m your sister, think of it as a welcome home gift.”_

She said it as if it was expected of her to help him out. This was the longest they’d spoken since before he left, even longer since they’d spoken without a fight. But John couldn’t pass up the offer of a newer phone, not with his current sand-encrusted one he’d bought before deployment. “Thanks, then. Are you and Clara still in Chelmsford?”

Silence. _“I am.”_

John bit back a groan and began stuffing the groceries anywhere they could fit. “And Clara?”

Her voice was bitten back, so the wound must still be fresh. _“We’re on a break. Nothing big, she wanted to pursue her flower business up north and I’m tied down here. You know.”_

Yeah, tied down at her booming profession of haircutting. There were no barbers anywhere north, John was sure. “Harry…”

_“Don’t start, Johnny. You’re fine, I’m fine. Right?”_

John closed the fridge with his back, leaning into it. He shut his eyes for a bit longer than a blink. “Yeah. Fine.”

She seemed satisfied with his response. _“Good. Now, where’s your flat? I can come by later tonight, save you the trip.”_

John picked at his jacket sleeve, face carefully blank. “Finsbury Park.”

The responding noise was completely overdramatic, in his opinion. _“You mean the worst neighborhood in London?”_

“It’s gotten better,” John defended, even as he nearly tripped over the slightly-peeling carpet. He glared at it, as if it was there solely to taunt him. “Really. Plus it’s cheap, and army pension isn’t accommodating. The Moorgate rail lets off close here, shouldn’t take you longer than an hour.”

_“Fine. I get off work at six. I’ll even bring dinner, because I’m the best big sister ever.”_

“We’re the same age. That’s, quite literally, how twins work.”

 _“Not by six minutes, we’re not,”_ she sang-song. John felt himself grinning at the familiar argument.

“Just means you’ll die six minutes sooner.”

_“Ah, yes, and what a glorious John-free six minutes those will be. Just like the good old days.”_

“Love you too, Har.”

After John hung up and figured that fiddling with the TV for twenty minutes wasn’t worth it, he decided to take a stroll.

Unladed by groceries, John figured it would be an easier limp through the city than earlier. He was used to physical activity, after all, having run around in the Middle East on nothing but the relentless sand. While the London sidewalk had better traction, John had overestimated his capabilities. Drastically. What should have been a twenty-minute walk became an hour, and what was a comfortable March breeze turned into something dry and hot. When John reached a slight incline, he nearly threw his cane into the street with defeat.

But it was all worth it when he made it to Bart’s.

It looked exactly the same as it did five years ago when he was in training. A bit deflated-looking amongst its more modern neighbors, it still stood tall with history and imperial brickwork. Grabbing a coffee from his usual stop, John took a much-needed rest on one of the vacant benches in the nearby park. With a sip, he tried to think about nothing and found himself utterly shit at it.

John couldn’t say that he missed the war, but he couldn’t say he didn’t miss it, either.

It was like he was addicted, a niggling in his bones that called for action. For a dying soldier in his hands, for something to sew and wrap and _heal._ That was a bit not-good, he was sure, but John was a bit not-good anyways.

These days, at least.

The wound in his shoulder, freshly-healed, was throbbing. His left thigh was throbbing. His dominant hand, clenched in his lap, was throbbing. Everything was throbbing and it had become so normal that John couldn’t think clearly without the pain anymore. With the lightest of groans under his breath, John attempted to change his train of thoughts before it dived into his daddy issues or his increasing fondness for beer. Might as well throw in his blurry heterosexuality while he’s at it.

“John? John Watson?”

Oh thank God.

 

*** * ***

 

Mike Stamford was that kind of friend you never wanted to lose touch with, until you did.

A lot happier and moreso plumper since the last time they met, being with Mike was like riding a bike. If John could still ride, that is. Taking a sip of tea (his coffee had gone cold), John reveled in the frantic page turning of textbooks in the dining area and rushing students in the main halls. 

“End of term,” Mike explained, fiddling with his tea bag. “I like making my finals unpredictable, changing up the format every year. I’m a notoriously tough grader.”

“Doing God’s work, Mike.”

They had been roommates third and fourth year of basics in college, both studying medical. Mike was better at naming off the different kinds of bone fractures, while John could sever a leg and have it sewed up and wrapped before the next student was finished with cutting through the bone. It was no wonder Mike went into teaching, though it surprised him that he chose Bart’s instead of an actual university.

The silence was comfortable, free of pitying glances towards his cane. John had nearly forgotten that Mike was there until he spoke back up.

“How’s London treating you?”

Another sip. “Treating me well, I suppose. I’m living at Finsbury Park, all I can afford on a pension. I’m actually looking for a job to see if I can eventually upgrade. Know anyplace that could use an old washed-up army doctor?”

Mike laughed aloud, something warm and familiar. “Old? Washed-up? You’re the best damn surgeon currently inside the building, I guarantee. And you’re just, what, thirty-three? Thirty-four? If you’re old, I’m old then.”

Cheers, then. “How’s Candy?” John asked in a superbly transparent change of subject.

“Still at the old bakery. She’s living up to her name, I can tell you that. But I’m sure you can tell.” He patted at his stomach, earning a chuckle from John. “We’re expecting our second, actually. Our first is twenty-seven months.”

Two, then. “Congratulations,” John said instead, raising his cup in a sort of toast. “Boy or girl?”

“First one boy, newest one a surprise. I’m hoping for a girl, but Candy swears up and down it’s going to be a boy.”

“All’s the same, congrats,” John said, taking the last sip of his tea. Standing with the aid of his cane, he shuffled to the trash can.  

And, of all the times and all the places, that’s where John first saw him.

He was across the main hall, scrubs donned and covered head-to-toe in blood. He was wrangling the hair cap off his head, all the while being scolded at by one of the resident doctors, the older woman nearly red in the face with fury. John watched him roll his eyes, curls free, and bite out something harsh in response. The students wove around them with disinterest, and John had no idea how.

How was nobody seeing this? Was he hallucinating?

Tea cup forgotten in his hands, John couldn’t help but pause – and that’s what would usually happen, was it not? When seeing someone so unbelievably beautiful, someone that stopped the breath in your chest until you felt like your very heart would crack under the pressure, that’s what you would do, right? Stop and stare and hold on for dear life. John was doing a damned good job at it, if that was the case.

“Yeah,” Mike said from somewhere beside him, voice seemingly far away. “That’s always the first reaction, following the first time you see him. Is he real? Am I dreaming? Who is he?”

“Who,” John breathed.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mike said simply.

The man’s head turned, as if summoned. His eyes narrowed on Mike, until they slid to John. There was little change in his expression, save for something less annoyed and more thoughtful crossing his features, before he turned back to the matter at hand. John forced his eyes off of him, back to Mike, who seemed curiously unaffected.

“I-,” John started, before closing his mouth abruptly. He tried again. “Is he real, then?”

“Yeah, he’s real. I know, I know, he’s-“

“- beautiful,” John finished for him. Mike chuckled from beside him.

"It ranges across the scale, how people initially feel about him. Beautiful, to heart-stopping, to downright terrifying. At first, most people are dying to get his attention around here. Until he talks, that is." After a beat, Mike nudged him in the side. "You alright, mate?"

It took John a minute to process the question. “Yeah,” he said, shaking himself out of it. Blinking down at the empty cup in his hands, he tossed it in the bin and spared a glance back up, but the man -Sherlock Holmes- was gone.

Somewhat unsettled, John was about to bid Mike farewell and make the miserable trek back home, but Mike beat him to it. “Say, you said you needed a job, yeah?”

John paused, wary at Mike’s odd tone. “Yeah, I did. Any ideas?”

As if making up his mind, head nodding, Mike binned his own cup and grabbed his jacket from the table. There was a strange expression on his face, one that John couldn’t name. “Just one. There are labs underneath Bart’s, as you probably remember. All sorts of things, from forensics to chemistry to even the occasional physical therapy, whenever it gets too loaded up here. Since it’s the end of term, a lot of jobs down there are going to be up for grabs during the summer. Maybe you’d like an assistant job, to get back on your feet before moving to something more suiting?”

John clenched his left fist, though not out of anger, and felt the slight tremor it held. He definitely couldn’t go back to his doctoring ways, not in this state. “That’s… actually perfect, Mike. I’d love to be back in Bart’s, even if it’s just cleaning beakers and yelling at students for snogging in the corners.” Oh, how the tables have turned. Mike smiled. 

“Come on then, I’ll bring you to the boss so he can have a look at you, see if you’re good to go. But I’m sure he remembers you.”

“Is it still Harving?”

“Yep.”

John grinned for the first time since he’d been shot, keeping up with Mike’s leisurely strides easily. “Then this will either be very good or colossally bad, depending on his memory.”

 

*** * ***

 

It went… well.

The hospital's director remembered him, that much was clear. Whether it was from the high test scores or the infamous girl fever he’d had at the time, he wasn’t sure. Regardless, John was in for the job and started on Monday, where he would be on beaker duty, and for that he was grateful.

Down in the labs, it was quiet. Mike cut through halls with familiarity, nodding to the occasional student. It was becoming late afternoon, on a Thursday, which meant that this calmness must be the norm.

John wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, but it didn’t matter.

“Where are we going?” John asked after the fifth or sixth turn, starting to feel the slight pain in his leg once again. He was hoping to grow out of this limp eventually, if the therapist’s word was anything to go by. Psychosomatic or not, it bloody _ached._ Mike stopped at set of double doors, the words ‘Chem Lab 4’ stamped on the wall beside it in big black letters.  

“Just getting you a closer look,” he said innocently, something hidden and almost mischievous behind his words. He held the door open for both of them.

 _'Of what,’_ John nearly asked, before the reason made itself perfectly clear and he locked his jaw closed.

“Mike,” the bundle of dark curls greeted, turned away from the pair and hunched over an experiment. His voice rang like music, a tangible chime in the words despite his deep baritone, and _this_ was what some people were 'terrified' of? A scientist that both looked and sounded like something out of Greek mythology? That impossible voice continued on. “I must insist that you cease bringing acquaintances here for me to frighten, as if I’m a sideshow act. I could begin charging you if so.”

Dear lord, he even spoke as if he were from another time. John swallowed, mouth dry, and tentatively stepped further into the room. Mike, unperturbed at his side, let the double doors shut behind him.

That seemed to stir the man – Sherlock. Popping out the slide and scribbling something on the paper beside him, he hooked his apron over his head and threw it carelessly to the side. His movements were precise but uncalculated, as if every move he made was part of a daily routine. When he strode across the room, it was as if he glided on air.

Not a hair out of place, he stopped exactly a meter from John and set him with a stare. His eyes were nearly black, John noticed, narrowed thoughtfully above the surgical mask that covered the bridge of his nose to his chin.

“Here we go,” Mike breathed, something akin to excitement in his voice. John furrowed his eyebrows, torn between confusion and awe. Up close, this _Sherlock_ was even more flawless, pores virtually invisible and skin milky white, unscarred. Those dark eyes rolled at the whispered words, and he tore off his mask as if to speak. His lips were rosy and plush, John couldn’t help but notice, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut.

But, quick as a blink, as soon as his mouth opened all good humor vanished from his expression. It was as if he had inhaled a toxin, breath halted in his throat and eyes wide. John, doctor before anything else, took an alarmed step forward. It was as if the man was frozen, eyes locked onto nothing in particular near John’s face.

“Are you alright?” John asked, gauging if it elicited a response. Not even the twitch of an eyelid, nothing to show that he was heard. He looked back to Mike, but only found mirrored confusion. He took another step forward, and couldn’t help reaching out a hand to his pulse point, trying to feel for irregularities. He faintly suspected a seizure, but it was much too early to diagnose.

But when skin met contact with skin, it was as if the man came back online. The rest of his breath rushed through his lungs in an abrupt wave, eyes fluttering closed and nose scrunching, as if he smelled something bad. He shied immediately from John’s touch, stumbling back into the lab table without any of his earlier grace. John didn’t follow him, but he  _did_ feel the surge of duty that ran familiar through his blood. This is what he wanted, right? To help somebody again?

“Sherlock,” Mike said, attempting to hide the shakiness in his tone. This hadn’t happened before, then, which only furthered John’s fears. “Do I need to call somebody?”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, but his voice was pained. He opened his eyes, and all confusion made way to a sort of fury that made John understand why people could think he was frightening. And the glare was aimed at _him._

“Who are you?” He nearly growled, body language the precise mixture between aggressive and vulnerable. John was beyond confused, but also wary of this newfound hostility. He braced himself taller than his frame, an almost military stance that shrugged on as comfortable as his own skin. 

“I’m John Watson. I was going to be an assistant down here in the labs, but I’m assuming that that might cause some complications with you, if I’m reading this right.” He wasn’t shy with his thoughts, despite how speechless he had been about the man earlier. Now, he was just trying to get through this strange encounter in one piece. It was proving more difficult than he thought.

“Complications are hardly so simple for one to comprehend, and you are no exception.” There was a sense of superiority in Sherlock’s tone, making him further grate on John’s nerves. Sherlock’s former aggression was waning, and his face was pinched in a taught wire of tension that lined his bones. He turned his glare to Mike for a moment, as if cursing him for bringing John into his sanctuary. “Has he been properly scared, then? Am I finished?”

“Yeah,” John replied instead, voice falsely light. With a terse nod, he turned back to Mike. “Well, thank you for letting me know what an utter _arse_ this man is. I’ll be sure to keep my distance, then.”

“John, I…” Mike began, but John was already out the door, quick on his feet even with his cane. He wasn’t angry at Mike, only the fact that he’d had enough of… whatever was happening here. With as much dignity as he could muster, he found his way back to the elevator.

And he tried to ignore the way Sherlock’s neck had felt under his fingers, as hard and as cold as ice.

 

*** * ***

 

After using the bathroom and washing his hands longer than necessary, John decided to withdraw his application. Too disheartened to visit Harving himself, John went to just pass the request onto the front desk receptionist.

Unfortunately, someone had beat him to it.

“John Watson,” he heard that familiar voice purr, words intentionally quiet and void of any earlier tension. His soft voice rolled off John's spine like a water drop. “He just joined the temporary staff in the labs, I believe.”

When he could, this Sherlock could definitely use his looks to his advantage. The woman at the desk was certainly not scared of him, cheeks flushed at the attention. She seemed to keep her wits about her, though, and her fingers were measured on her keyboard.

“Yes, he’s on the roster. Do you have any questions, Mr. Holmes?”

“Please, Sherlock. I insist.” He cracked a smile, something crooked and handsome even from where John stood, half behind a corner. “Could you do a favor for me, then?”

She tried to seem professional, John could tell. The break in her voice gave her away. “Y-yes, of course.”

The smile grew. “Wonderful. Whenever possible, please schedule John Watson to assist me during my reserved times.”

John couldn’t help it. _“What?"_ He breathed, bewildered. How much whiplash could he take today?

Like a switch, Sherlock stiffened. Somehow, he had heard John's whisper. The receptionist looked down, unaware, and wrote down the request on a post-it. “Of course, sir. Anything else?”

Sherlock turned, slowly, and met John’s eyes. He looked almost scared for the splittest of seconds, before painting his face carefully blank. “No,” he said lightly, not breaking their stare. The animosity was dimmed, but still smoldering beneath his eyes. “Thank you, Sarah.”

And then he strode past John purposefully, nearly brushing his shoulder. He smelled of chemicals and plastic, but underneath it all was something electric that called John’s blood to attention. It was utterly unfair, that a man who held such hatred towards him could stir at John’s very bones, like a magnet to metal. Even when being horribly rude, John could not help but feel an urge for contact, as if he were at a museum with explicit instructions not to touch the exhibits. He had to. There was no question, it was merely instinctual. 

He still wasn't sure if he was dreaming or not. 

Staring at the front desk longer than appropriate, John spun on his heel and walked out the main entrance with a shaking fist.


	3. open book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your eyes,” John said almost worriedly, pushing closer to get a better look. Those same eyes widened in surprise, but didn’t move away from John’s scrutiny. “They’re… they’re silver.” John knew that they were pitch black in color and in anger, the last time they'd met. Now, it was a color so pale it nearly faded into the rest of him.

March turned into April, April paved way for summer, and life went on.

John kept the job at Bart’s, determined to come in Monday and tell that cock Sherlock off for being… well, a cock. He was mostly frustrated at the hatred thrown his way for no apparent reason, and didn’t understand how to go about it. So, obviously, hostility was an excellent retaliation.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), for the whole next week Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

For the first few days, John pretended he was happy about it. Who needed someone that would make a man feel like utter shit just for the hell of it? John was better off, honestly. Those dark eyes, practically murderous, were stamped in his brain and behind his eyelids. It was unsettling. He should be _dreading_ seeing the man. Yet on Thursday, he couldn’t help but ask after him.

“So, Diane,” he started conversationally, wiping at the windows with a sponge and thick gloves. The experiment had been more explosive than expected, and the person he was assisting was worryingly carefree about it. “Do you know who Sherlock Holmes is?”

She laughed, maneuvering off her protective eyeware around her ponytail. “Do I? I worked with him a bit, back in my freshman days. He was an excellent teacher, showed me what an eyeball did when you push it through a grater.”

John carefully ignored the last part. “He’s a teacher, then?”

“Teacher? Ha! No, he lacks the discipline for that, I’d say. This was over at my first uni, King’s College. In fact, once in a blue moon he was also at the London Fertility Center, where I interned. He’s known all over London’s medical district, always doing the odd experiment and causing trouble.”

After that, she wandered off with the mutilated brain under her arm in tupperware. John couldn’t say that the interaction gained him any insight.

“Wait a second,” Harry interrupted, finishing off her cup of juice during one of her visits. John, in his own determined way, refused to stock alcohol in his flat. “So you’re saying you didn’t do anything? Didn’t give him a dirty look, shag his girl, nothing?”

John himself was nursing lemonade. “Nope, nothing. It’s bizarre, he treated me as if I were an old enemy who pissed in his tea. To put it mildly.”

“Sounds like you scared him off, Johnny.” She stretched her legs, socked feet propping up on the coffee table. “Whatever you did, he’s having none of it. Best to be rid of him.”

“I suppose,” John replied, ignoring the niggling at the back of his mind.

Sarah, the front desk receptionist, seemed to be there every day John was. She was sweet, trading greetings and goodbyes whenever John passed, and in turn John liked to drop off a coffee on the days he had a morning shift.

Every Monday he’d ask his schedule for the week, which labs he’d be assigned to and who he’d be assisting. Every Monday she’d glance at that blasted post-it note on her desk, and every Monday she’d purse her lips and read off names that definitely didn’t sound like the one they were both awaiting to hear.

By the fourth Monday, though, John couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

“No ‘Sherlock Holmes’?” He asked tentatively, leaning further against the counter. She met his eyes with surprise, Apparently not expecting him to know of the 'agreement', but then turned back to her computer screen with a delicate sigh. 

“Not today, sorry. He hasn’t been here in nearly a month.” There was genuine concern in her voice.

“Alright, thanks,” he murmured, feeling strangely lost. He just wanted to tell the arse off, damn it! Yeah, that’s why he couldn’t help but keep an eye out for every dark head of curls that passed, or shake the disappointment he felt when each sighting proved itself fruitless. He just needed to yell at the bloke, is all.

Hardly believing even his own thoughts, John went on downstairs and cleaned up vomit for the better part of three hours.

 

*** * ***

 

When he came in Friday morning, half asleep and one sock slipped halfway down his foot, it was to a smile.

“Hello, John. Ta for the coffee. How’s the shoulder by the way? It’s going to rain soon, I know that’s when it gives you trouble.” Her words were rapid as she accepted the latte, so unlike her usual demeanor. While her figure was calm, he could practically feel the energy thrumming around her.

“It’s… stiff, but nothing too major.” He blinked at her, questioning, while he struggled through righting his sock. Bart’s seemed relatively calm, now that finals were over and summer internships beginning. That didn’t explain her excitement.

“He’s back,” she said simply, ponytail swishing as she swiveled her chair towards her screen. John didn’t initially understand, but his lightbulb lit right up when she straightened the post-it at her desk.

“Oh,” John replied, in his infinite eloquence. The grip on his cane clenched and unclenched. “Should I…?”

She nodded lightly, knee jumping as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Sherlock must be more to her than a pretty face, then, if she was this excited about it. “Yes, you will be going to Chem Lab 4 instead, with Sherlock. He made it explicitly clear that you assist him.” There was an odd glint in her eye, appraising John in a new light, but she didn’t say anything more. With a nod, John went on his way. When he reached the lab, he held his breath before shuffling through the door.

Time had done nothing but amplify Sherlock’s effect on John, it seemed.

He didn’t glance up when John entered, head bent to a microscope, but his shoulders tensed together ever so slightly as the door closed. His dark hair still curled perfectly, as far as Johh could tell, and his skin was still that deathly pale. There was a surgical mask over his mouth, even though he didn’t have on any other protective gear like an apron or eyewear. He was bent over rather than sitting, which couldn’t have been comfortable for long. John limped further into the room.

“I see that I’m assigned to you, then,” John said, keeping his voice easy. He desperately wanted to ask Sherlock what game he was playing, why he was asking for John after seemingly loathing him without remorse, but he would save that for another day.

“Nothing gets past you.” His voice was smoother than John remembered, the baritone of it practically masking the rudeness of the words themselves. John whooshed out a breath. 

“Right, okay. What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock hummed under his breath, and then held up his bare hands. “Please put latex gloves on me.”

John’s brain short-circuited. _What?_ He nearly scoffed at the notion. Sherlock's hands were that same pallid color as the rest of his skin, fingers long and nails perfectly manicured. He wore a royal blue shirt, buttoned up and sleeves folded pristinely up to his elbows, and John was surprised to find that Sherlock wasn’t as thin as he had thought. Slim muscles winded his forearms and buffed his chest, buttons straining against the pressure. A month ago, John thought him to look almost sickly, but now that was _definitely_ not the case.

John shook himself before his ogling could take a dangerous turn. He wondered if the skin was still as cold as it looked, as cold as he remembered. Pursing his lips and feeling like a tool, he grabbed a pair of gloves from the box and slid them onto the proffered hands.

It was like dragging his hands down hard-packed snow, and John felt those dark, murderous eyes flick up to his face.

Only… they didn’t _feel_ murderous. John didn’t want to meet the stare, but after he slid on the last glove, his eyes moved on their own accord.

“Good,” Sherlock murmured, expression void of anger but still holding that calculating edge, bordering on frustration. His hands slowly lowered to the table. He seemed to be more curious than before, words on the tip of his tongue and brows slanted thoughtfully.

But that’s not what John was distracted by.

“Your eyes,” John gasped, pushing closer to get a better look. Those same eyes widened in surprise, but didn’t move away from John’s awed scrutiny. “They’re… they’re _silver._ I could have sworn they were darker, last time we met.”

They _were_ silver, a metallic almost-white color that had the same depth as a storm, shades of grays swirling almost amber towards the pupil. From a distance, you’d hardly be able to tell where the sclera ended and the iris began. John couldn't break their gaze. 

But then Sherlock pulled back, mask still strapped over his mouth. The sudden movement made John realize he hadn’t been breathing, himself, and his abrupt inhale brought that same intoxicating scent onto his palate. At that, he felt himself pushing more support onto his cane.

Sherlock spun away, oddly robotic in his movements rather than graceful. Had John stepped over a line?

“It’s… the fluorescence.” Sherlock explained, his voice sounding choked off. He hunched back over the table to scribble something on a piece of paper. “Changed the color.”

That didn’t add up. “But we’re in the same…”

He trailed off when Sherlock’s face slid into a familiar glare, though lacking that same dangerous edge as a month ago. “Do leave the thinking to the professionals.”

Well, he certainly had a _mouthy_ side, but that wasn't exactly old news. John was patient enough to ignore it. “Right you are. Anything else you need me to do? Tie your shoelaces, maybe brush your teeth?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Unnecessary. I need a second opinion; we’re going to the morgue.”

“My opinion? There’s dead bodies in there.”

“That was an awful attempt at humor, John.” His half-smile said otherwise. John shivered at the sound of his name in that voice. Other than the glitch earlier, Sherlock was lively this morning, all long strides and rapid movements. He still wore the surgical mask, but it didn’t seem to bother him any.

The morgue should have been utterly boring, but Sherlock made sure it was anything but.

Inside was bare and metallic, oddly soothing in its lack of emotion that death provoked in the outside world. There was a woman there, thin and mousy in a lab coat that seemed a size too big. When she heard the door close, she whipped around with a squeak, ponytail hitting her in the face. “S-Sherlock,” she sputtered.

Another admirer, then. She inconspicuously straightened at her clothes, cheeks blazing, but Sherlock didn’t even spare her a glance. “John Molly, Molly John. John is my assistant for the morning, and Molly is the least irritating mortician as of yet.”

John smiled at her in greeting, and then noticed that they weren’t alone. Well, not entirely. On the table behind her was the body of a middle-aged man, sallow and gray, and Sherlock promptly bent down to sniff the bloke’s neck.

“Might help without the mask,” the girl - Molly - joked with a nervous laugh.

“No matter, the smell’s strong enough.” Sherlock clapped his hands together once, rubbing them together in excitement. “How long are you giving us?”

Molly raised her chin slightly. “Two hours.”

“Hm. I asked for three.” He finally glanced her way and offered her a grin half-hidden by the mask, so spontaneously dazzling that the poor girl never stood a chance. “Is there any way you can stretch it?”

Her chin dropped back down, but she was hiding a delighted smile of her own. John didn’t feel too bad. “S-sure.”

“This body is case-closed, correct?”

“Yes, the heart attack was induced by his wife for access to his estate.”

“Tedious. Open-casket?”

She shook her head. “Cremation. It’s set for tonight.”

“Oh, wonderful! That means John and I can have some fun.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment as if bracing himself, and then slid off the surgical mask. John’s seen this all before. His nose was straight and slightly upturned, and his lips were full and bowed drastically at the top. He was unbelievable. John never stood a chance, either.

As Molly scurried away, Sherlock tossed John goggles, an apron, and elbow-length rubber gloves, rolling over a metal cart topped with the most intimidating medical instruments possible. He wordlessly handed John a bone saw. John swallowed, looked at the body, and then looked back up to Sherlock.

“What exactly are we _doing_ to him?” he asked uneasily.

Sherlock’s grin was wolf-like. “He donated his body to science,” as if that was answer enough. “How fast can you sever all four of his limbs? I’m assuming you’re a bit out of practice.”

‘Why?’ John nearly asked, but it was moot point. He narrowed his eyes and, grumbling to himself, started on the shoulders.

 

*** * ***

 

John was _exhausted_. After sawing through bone and fat as if preparing a cut of meat for hours on end, everything was hurting and his nose was beginning to sting from the stench. Sherlock seemed annoyingly unbothered throughout the ordeal, jotting down notes and studying the mangled body with unfaltering interest, and it made John all the more irritated. He’s seen his own fair share of blood and guts, after all, so he wasn’t about to let the posh scientist beat him in a game of… _corpse chicken_. He kept the extremities frequent and to himself.

Nearing the end as they collected the parts back together (including an ear that had flown halfway across the room), John expected a number of things. Another body, perhaps, or orders to follow him back down to Chem Lab 4 to help with even more experiments. Hopefully a dismissal.

What he didn’t expect, however, was a lunch request.

“I’ve had you here for nearing four hours, and I know with certainty that you hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning. Enough of the idea to grab the secretary a cup of coffee - interesting subject, that - but not my point. Care for a sandwich?”

John’s stomach betrayed him, enough so that he could ignore the mention of Sarah. That was Sherlock’s first deduction in John’s direction, however small, and John wasn’t as unnerved by it as he would’ve thought. Shaking it away, John slid off his apron and hung it up to the side. “Sure, as long as it’s not from the cafeteria. I may have gotten old, but my taste buds still work the same.”

Sherlock _tsk_ ed, sliding on his suit jacket. Anything heavier was unneeded in the warming weather. “You’re relatively young, and in good health. Well, physically.” He eyed the cane purposefully, but said nothing more in its direction. “For example, how old do you think I am?”

John held the door open for him, studying his features with a clinical eye. No wrinkles, nor any sign of sagging skin. He seemed to be in perfect health, maybe even at his peak. There was also a sense of maturity at his stance, no vestiges of adolescence left in the way he held his shoulders. “Can’t say a day over twenty-eight.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked. “I’m thirty six, actually. Around a decade off.”

John nearly stumbled, which would be much worse when the person couldn’t walk well to begin with. “No! Not possible, that’s – god, that’s older than me!” He studied him with even more fervor, trying to find any sign of middle-age. Nothing obvious came to surface. “What’s your secret? Only eating organic, taking the stairs, ground-up rhino tusk in your smoothie?”

Sherlock laughed at that. “Is that your professional hypothesis?”

“I don’t know, did I get any of it right?”

“Not at all.” As they emerged outside, the sky still dark with rain and the ground wet, Sherlock dug around in his trouser pocket. He pulled out a tin Altoid container, shaking the contents in John’s direction.

“Mints?”

Sherlock inspected the container as if just now noticing what kind of tin it was, and rolled his eyes at the sight. Popping off the top revealed five rather large pills, almost violently red in color. “I have severe anemia, so for it I have to take an iron pill any time I eat. I have more… iron in my body than others, and as a result I suppose there are positive side-effects, including clear skin.” He inspected the pills for a short moment, before clasping the box closed and sliding it back in his pocket. He drew his eyes up towards the sky. “Quickly, now. We’ve a small window before it pours again.”

They ended up at a quaint sandwich shop, not too far from the hospital. Understandably from the weather, the place was nearly empty. After ordering, they took a table near the back and waited for their food.

“So,” John began, fingers rapping at the table. His left hand was clenched in a fist at his lap, to avoid Sherlock’s wandering eyes noticing the tremor. “What have you been working on all morning?”

“Hmm? Oh, that.” He flapped his hand, waving the question away. “Just passing the time. Never know when a body with no arms or legs will pop up at a crime scene, and I’ll have to identify the weapon.”

“Crime scenes? You work with the police?”

Sherlock smirked. “Only when they’re out of their element. So, all of the time.”

John nodded. Somehow, working with the police to help catch criminals suited Sherlock to the ground. “I’ve always wanted to be a police officer,” he mused. “Chase teenagers, write tickets, occasionally get to tase dangerous civilians. Not too bad of a gig.” He shrugged. “Before I went into the medical field that is. It was a dream, anyways.”

Sherlock cocked his head with a frown. “I never would’ve guessed that.” He seemed bothered by the thought.

The food arrived, which gave John a chance to mull over the words. Sherlock popped one of the crimson pills, and John began on the chips. He chose his next sentence carefully. “Well, maybe I’m not that easy to deduce.”

Sherlock ate his food clinically, chews measured and exact. “I don't think you're easy to deduce, John. Quite the opposite.”

“Yeah? I find that hard to believe. My mum calls me her open book, and I can never seem to get things past my sister.”

Sherlock shook his head, long fingers toying with a chip. “It’s easier to read family members, having grown with the person’s mannerisms. While I have a certain affinity for deduction, it seems to come to a halt whenever involving you. It's... odd.” He takes a careful sip of his water. “If anything, you’re a closed book with a padlocked cover.”

John blinked. “That’s… thanks?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked, but he said nothing more on the subject. “What brings you back to London, then? I can get enough of a read on you to tell that you're familiar enough in the city.”

“I am, though not in the last few years. I spent some time in Afghanistan, an army doctor, and I originally trained at Bart’s. After getting shot in the shoulder, I was invalidated. I decided to come back where I at least recognize the streets.”

“I'd guessed as much. Were you any good?”

John nodded, no need for modesty. “Very good, actually. And I enjoyed the work more than anything.”

“So you miss it?” His voice was almost too nonchalant.

“More than anything. Though I do have a certain fondness for being back in the city, not getting shot at.” His finished off his sandwich, and leaned back in his chair. He could hear the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance, and prepared himself for a difficult walk home. Which reminded him, “Am I finished for the day, then? Or do you still need an assistant for the evening?”

Sherlock’s plate was only half-empty, but he threw in his napkin. “No, I’m finished as well. I might not be back Monday; I’m going out of town over the weekend.”

They headed outside, where it was lightly misting and darkening by the second. Sherlock seemed paler in the outside light, the contours on his face shadowing gray rather than a more human shade of red or pink. He was much too beautiful for his own good. The pair loitered at the entrance, almost awkwardly, before deciding to speak.

“I guess-“

“John-“

Their words overlapped, so John stopped with a chuckle and nodded Sherlock on. This was feeling too reminiscent of a first date. Sherlock cleared his throat, hands sliding into his pockets, before finding John’s eyes purposefully.

“Are you still in need for a flatmate?”

That wasn’t expected. “Huh?” John said dumbly.

Sherlock cleared his throat again, and John was half-hoping to find a blush against his cheeks. Of course, no color was shown. “A couple of weeks ago, Mike brought in an old friend into the lab I was working in, just hours after I had complained about needing a flatmate. It’s safe to assume that maybe the two instances are connected, somewhat.” His feet scuffed at the ground, and small droplets of water littered his curls. “So, I ask again, are you still in need for a flatmate? I found a wonderful prospect near Regent’s Park that we both could easily afford together.”

John rushed back online, and he gripped his cane tighter. He’s sure he looked even more breathless than he sounded. “Uh, yes, yes I am still in need for a flatmate. And I think that sounds just lovely, much closer to Bart’s than my current arrangement.”

“It’s a match, then.” Sherlock’s lips spread into a full-blown grin, complete with ultra-white teeth and a crookedness that almost made John’s heart stop. He’s sure he would get tired of the man’s incredible beauty (he would _have_ to, right?), but he had a feeling that the day wouldn’t come anytime soon.

“The address is 221B Baker Street, and it’s right behind us. Shall we?”

John didn’t need to spin around to ascertain Sherlock’s words, and found himself utterly unsurprised at the thought. His own mouth curved into an answering smile.

“Lead the way.”


	4. phenomenon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John opened his eyes enough to find Sherlock somewhere above him, and he grabbed the collar of his dressing gown. His head throbbed painfully. “You were in the flat,” John managed, speaking slowly to enunciate the words. “Five seconds – five seconds from 221B to across the street. That... you can't... that's not possible.”

Living with Sherlock was an anomaly in itself, to say the least.

Not that it had any right to be. They were pushing on two months together in the flat, a roomy two-bedroom-one-bath just over the sandwich shop they'd had lunch at. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, was only too happy to have the company, if her frequent not-so-subtle hinting of their ‘romantic’ relationship was anything to go by. Sherlock worked with the police, as he had told John during that first week, and while he never discussed any of it with John, there was a mysterious man by the name of 'Lestrade' who, at a phone call, could whisk the madman away for most of the day. John was half relieved that he wasn't expected to tag along, while also half utterly, maddeningly curious about it all. 

That wasn’t what made living with Sherlock a full-time oddity, though.

The man may as well have been a bloody _ghost._

First and foremost: Sherlock Holmes rarely ate. Anytime he _did_ eat, once every few days, he started it off popping an iron pill and succeeding in an average of half the plate. John has been pushing for every other day, and while Sherlock hasn’t yet acquiesced, the wall was getting thinner and thinner from John’s determination.

“You don’t eat,” John had stated during the second week, having set a plate of ravioli in front of the man and promptly having been ignored. The anatomy book Sherlock was reading that looked to be in… Japanese was too interesting, it seemed.

“Excellent observation, John, truly a riveting sight to behold.” He flipped to the next page, eyes only flickering up to John’s face to narrow and then return to the book. His irises were getting darker by the day, John noticed, and his mood directly followed the trend.

“Eat,” John insisted, pushing the plate further towards him, the iron pill nearly rolling off onto the table. A bite to eat usually seemed to ease the sharp end of his temper, and after the yelling match earlier over the state of the toaster, they both could use a peace offering. Sherlock paid him nor the plate any mind.

Right. John was just getting ready to give up, already sitting to his own meal, before Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and flung the book off to the side. Never taking his annoyed glare off of John, he pushed the too-red pill between his lips and chased it with water, and then speared the pasta with his fork. There was a slight grimace on his face, as if the action of eating disgusted him, and with infinite grace he shovelled ravioli after ravioli into his mouth. He chewed methodically and forcefully, his jaw popping from disuse, and when the plate reached exactly half of its original content, Sherlock dropped his fork and pushed it all away.

“There,” Sherlock grumbled, reaching back over to pick up his book. After another squint in John’s direction, he curled up his long legs and continued reading. John knew better than to push for dessert, but he’d get there eventually.

Second on the list: Sherlock Holmes never slept. Never. Not even once has John seen the man catch a wink of sleep, and John spends majority of his time in the actual flat. He sees him lie on the couch for hours on end, eyes closed, but he knew better than to think that Sherlock was actually dozing. His breaths, while even, always seemed _too_ measured, and his body was never quite relaxed. It was an odd observation, but John just knew that the sight of it didn’t _feel_ right, and his gut was rarely off target.

“Get some sleep, it’s nearly 3 AM,” John said sometime during the third week, having gotten up for a drink of water. Sherlock was in the same position he was four hours ago, seated by the window with his hands clasped in his lap. The moon’s reflection bathed his face, and his irises were an unnerving black whenever he turned to look at John. Luckily, there seemed to be no malice in his face despite his prior moods the last few days.

“John,” he said in lieu of greeting, voice slightly scratchy. John couldn’t tell if it was just the lighting, but Sherlock looked positively haggard, dark circles beneath his eyes and sullen cheeks. He looked like he did the first time they met, now that John could compare it to how he looked when his eyes were silver and he was alive with health and energy. It did nothing to damper his beauty, oddly enough, his exhaustion just more obvious now. His voice was cold, but not harsh. “I’m not tired.”

John pursed his lips, and set his glass down at the counter. “Come on, at least try for a kip on the sofa.” Sherlock let him touch his arm, and John still could hardly swallow the shock of frigid skin under his fingers, hard like a stone. How long had Sherlock been sitting directly below the vent? Arms careful and legs bracing despite his limp, John did his best to lie the man down on the couch, covering him with one of Mrs. Hudson’s quilts.

Before he could leave, he felt a hand brush his arm. It was as quick as a breath, and John already felt the goosebumps arise from the chill.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Thank you, John.”

John felt his brow dip, unable to mask his concern, but he didn’t want to overstep any boundaries with further coddling. He settled for an awkward pat on the knee. “Yeah, alright. Don’t mention it.”

Sherlock gave a semblance of a smile, and then closed his eyes. It was obvious it was for John’s benefit, and that he’d jump back up the moment he was alone, but John took it in kind and went back upstairs. He slept fitfully that night.

Another thing that John was sure about: Sherlock Holmes had a lot more secrets than he would've thought.

After three full weeks of living together, when Sherlock seemed to reach the peak of whatever ailed him, he just… disappeared. For the next few days, without any warning in John’s direction, Sherlock was simply gone. He left his keys on the table, and while there was no sign of a struggle or hasty retreat, John couldn’t help but worry.

“Oh, he does that, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said one morning, having brought up a pot of tea and some biscuits. “He warned me of it the day he first moved in. Every few weeks, he goes over to visit his parents in France for a day or two. He has severe anemia, you see, and it seems as though his parents have the proper medication needed.” She lowered her voice gently, collecting John’s plate and cup when he was finished. “It’s not my place to say, but Sherlock used to have a problem with, well, _recreational_ habits.” She _tsk_ ed, her face drawn into worry. “Whenever people become addicted to drugs, the _illegal_ kind that is, they can’t take certain medications without trouble of a relapse. I'm sure in France there's a whole lab for him, to make sure he doesn't have any problems... it's probably all cold and lonely. Poor Sherlock, let’s see, when he gets back I’ll make him a…”

She made her way downstairs, muttering to herself all the way while John mulled over her words. A drug problem? _Sherlock?_ It wasn’t his place, either, but he couldn’t stop thinking of the possibility and Sherlock's prolonged absence. Maybe all that John’s been noticing was a relapse, and Sherlock has to leave every few weeks to get a fix? It’s not unheard of, though the symptoms and time frame were a bit off.

John shook out of it, mentally chastising himself. No, he needed to have faith, instead of accusing his flatmate of being a junky. Holding onto some sort of idea that Sherlock was an addict would only turn out to be trouble, considering how difficult it would be for John to mask his doctoral instincts.

Though when Sherlock came back the next day, eyes silver and a smile on his face, it was harder for John to drop the thought. Luckily, he was (apparently) hard to read.

Which brings John to his next point: Sherlock Holmes was completely blind in his deduction when it came to John.

It was a bit flattering, to be honest. John didn’t even know what he was missing, until the first time he saw someone piss Sherlock off and tear down the thin wall of civility the man barely had. Sherlock had a quick mouth and an alarming eye for detail, and John had had a first row seat to the show at the time. Was this what Mike was _really_ talking about, the reason some people feared the man?

John could see why.

“You’re forty-two, though you tell everyone you’re in your early thirties. You dye your hair that horrendous shade of auburn, thinking it looks natural, but the dye is too cheap and blotchy to fool anybody. You’re attempting to lose those last ten pounds of fat, telling yourself that it’s baby weight, except that your youngest is already in school and you enjoy the way cake tastes, in fact you had it yesterday at dinner. What was the occasion? A birthday, perhaps? It was your husband’s, but he was too busy sleeping with the secretary – how absolutely _pedestrian,_ by the way – to make the party. And you know that, because you cried yourself to sleep last night. On top of that, your dog has cancer and you don’t know how long you must see it in pain before you put it down. Oh, and check your teenage daughter; I think she might have a drug problem.” He said all of this in rapid fire, before the woman in scrubs could even think to close her gaping mouth. Sherlock leaned closer, eyes manic and teeth slightly bared. “So how about you focus on _that_ instead of _throwing away my personal apron!_ ”

Sherlock stormed away, all legs and cheekbones. John, after the initial shock and rushed apologies, had to practically jog to catch up. Which was a lot tougher with a cane.

“What the hell was _that?”_ John demanded, managing to keep up with the man. Sherlock kept his eyes straight ahead.

“That was a deduction, John, a skill I have that I’m sure you’ve heard about. Apparently it’s my _‘thing’_.” He scoffed the word, but he seemed more cranky than genuinely pissed at this point. John, breathlessly, shook his head in disbelief.

“You can’t do that,” he said.

Sherlock groaned loudly at that, rolling his eyes to the heavens as if John was there to personally torment him. “Oh, _you too?_ Fantastic. What now, I shouldn’t be so _mean_ to people? Hurt their feelings? Or did my deductions scare you, that I can peel someone apart as if they were nothing more than a piece of fruit? Call me a freak, now, will you? Well, _newsflash_ John, _everyone_ has eyes and it’s not _my_ fault that- “

“No, God, Sherlock, that’s not what I meant,” interrupted John, still slightly in awe. He grabbed Sherlock’s forearm to slow him down, already winded from the strenuous pace.

Sherlock’s eyes immediately zeroed in on the grip, seemingly affronted, so John dropped his hand. They had already stopped in the hallway, after all. Shaking his head slightly, John lifted his eyes to meet the taller man’s gaze.

“Sherlock, that was… I’d never call you a freak, by the way. Second, I didn’t mean that you _can’t_ do that. More like… well, you can’t _do_ that. I’m just… how is that possible? That thing you did back there?”

Sherlock’s bad humor melted away from his face, brows twitching in confusion, and then he almost looked _shy_. His head dipped, eyes trailing to the floor and then right back up. “You… don’t think that it was a sign of insanity, then?”

John barked out a laugh at that. “Insanity? Sherlock, that was utterly _brilliant._ My god, I knew you were a genius, but… Of course, you’ll have to eventually apologize to that woman, as you’ve probably ruined her life at the moment, but… _amazing._ And you knew all of that from observing?”

Sherlock’s eyes were growing wider than John’s ever seen them, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. He nearly fell over his words. “Observing… in a sense, y-yes.”

John couldn’t help the grin spreading across his cheeks. “Can you deduce me, then? Tell me my story?”

Sherlock’s expression dropped, but not by much. His eyes darted all over John’s body, never lingering anywhere too long, and in the end it seemed to be fruitless. “I’ve told you before, I can’t. Not very well, anyway. You… there’s something about you, something that I can’t read. I see you as anyone else would see you, though with a few notable differences.”

John skipped over the last part. “You can’t deduce me then? Not even a little bit?”

Sherlock’s face twisted into a half-hearted grimace, and god help him, even with wrinkled chins and a scrunched-up nose John still thought he was tremendously beautiful. His baritone was careful. “You… you’ve been in the army.”

John shook his head, nudging Sherlock’s shoe playfully with his cane. “No no no, you knew that already. I’ve told you that before, I remember.”

Sherlock twitched his lips, and in unison they continued down the hallway at a much slower pace. “You have? I can’t recall that particular tidbit. I could tell your military service from your right pinky, anyway.” At John’s laughter, he let his own ring out, that same sound that belonged more to an instrument than a man. He held the laboratory door open for them both. “Come now, John, this hipbone won’t liquefy itself, will it?”

Sherlock was a genius through and through, and while he never skipped the chance to call John an idiot, he _still_ hasn’t thrown any deductions John’s way. At first John was glad: knowing that Sherlock couldn’t tell his deep dark insecurities was a plus, no matter how you looked at it. And then, odd as it sounded, John began to worry; was there something wrong with him? Was this some sort of warning sign? Just another bullet point to the list of Sherlock’s eccentricities, John eventually decided. Best to move on.

And last was probably the oddest one of all: for one reason or another, Sherlock Holmes was endlessly fascinated with John, and John hadn’t the faintest idea why.

This one was easier to explain with context.

 

*** * ***

 

_“Sherlock!”_

John was livid when he came home from work. Absolutely livid _. Not only_ had Sherlock thrown away his leftovers (to make room for the mutilated genitals in the fridge), _not only_ had John’s favorite sweater been littered with holes (“John, I _may_ have accidentally let a dozen moths loose in the flat”), and _not only_ had Sherlock used John’s razor to shave the hair off a decapitated head (the poor sod was a redhead and John came home to a bald scalp and ginger hairs in his blades).

But to use his _kettle?_ For _mealworms?_

This was all too much to accept, just in the ten minutes John had been in the flat. “Sherlock!” He yelled again.

“Yes?” Sherlock drawled, pajama bottoms on and chest bare save for his dressing gown. John didn’t have the patience to ogle. Sherlock was seated at the table with one of John’s slippers, a mealworm wriggling along the sole.

John hit rock bottom. The _absolute bottom._ Instead of exploding like he was on the inside, he let out a hiss of breath and pinched the bridge of his nose until his blood pressure was at acceptable levels. “Sherlock,” he said evenly, almost conversationally, “What in the ever-loving _fuck_ are you doing to my things?”

Sherlock glanced up, face the epitome of innocence. “Just experimenting, is all.”

John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock stiffened in his seat slightly. “I’m not going to ask you what you did wrong, Sherlock, because you are an adult, and you know precisely what you’ve done. So what I’m going to do is go to Tesco, buy another kettle and razor, and when I get back everything will be cleaned up. And I am not going to talk to you for several days, because actions have repercussions and it eats you up that you have to physically talk to me to know what I’m thinking, rather than deduce it at a glance.” Sherlock fidgeted more and more by each word, and John derived a sick happiness from it. “Is that understood?”

“John…” Sherlock began uncertainly.

“Not now, Sherlock, I have errands.” Grabbing his keys and stuffing them in his pocket, he gave Sherlock one last glare before shuffling down the stairs. He was getting better with his cane, but the damn thing still made it hard to make a dramatic exit.

Out on the sidewalk, John risked a glance back up to the flat. Sherlock stood in the window, arms crossed and eyes trained on John, but he made no move to show that he was guilty. Typical. With a sigh, John looked both ways and crossed the street, determined to be back at the flat before the day reached its peak heat.

Unfortunately, something derailed his plans.

A gunshot rang through the air, and then another. Logically, it was just an unfortunate series of backfires from any number of vehicles, but John didn’t have the time nor the mind for logic. The sound of rubber screeching on asphalt burned through the air, and John’s instincts came to play. He immediately dropped to the ground, cane flung, and only had the slight vantage to see a car barreling towards him at too-high speeds for the city. He was frozen on the pavement, muscles steady but locked on the ground, and he couldn’t do anything more than battle at his war-torn body to _fucking_ _move._ Last-second screams rained around him, and he couldn’t even think-

The feel of wind, a metal vice on his shoulder, and suddenly John was slammed into the curb head-first. A crowd of people surrounded him, more by the second, and he heard a familiar baritone yell: “Stand back! BACK! I swear, if one of – yes, yes, call the emergency line! All fourteen of you, maybe if you annoy them enough they’ll send the ambulance faster.” The voice again, gentler: “John, can you hear me? You’re- You’re bleeding. Quite a lot. Can… I’m not a doctor, John. Answer me!”

It was a miracle John wasn’t dead right now, let alone lucid. His words were slurred, but he could order his thoughts well enough. “’m not good. ‘cussion, stitches, bleeding, all that- wait.” John opened his eyes enough to find Sherlock somewhere above him, and grabbed the collar of his dressing gown. Something wasn’t… “You were in the flat,” John managed, speaking slowly to make sure his words came out whole. Spiritually, he's somewhere up near the Orion constellation, but he kept his gaze firm. “Five seconds – five seconds from 221B to across the street. You… that’s not… You _can’t.”_

Sherlock shushed him gently, supporting John the best he could. “I walked with you, John. I needed to go to Tesco’s for shaving cream, you knew that. How hard did you hit your head?”

John was shaking his head as Sherlock spoke. “Nnnnn-“

“Stop that!” Sherlock barked, holding John’s head in his hands to keep it still. The frigid skin acted like a cooler against John’s throbbing skull, and Sherlock’s breath washed over his face as he murmured, mesmerizing him. “I was walking with you to the store, I told you this. You were so angry, John, you must’ve paid me no mind. We crossed the street, and a car came barreling from a wrong turn, so I pushed you out of the way. You hit your head quite badly, honestly, if you’re saying these things.” Sherlock leaned in closer, and it would be intimidating if not for how much John wished to bridge the gap. His voice went softer beneath the frantic crowd. “It would be impossible for me to reach you here from the flat in just five seconds. A pure, natural impossibility. So why humor it?”

Indeed. “Why humor it?” John repeated, dazed. Sherlock nodded, obviously pleased, and he kept his hands cradling John’s head. The ambulance was closing in on Baker Street if the wail was anything to go by, and when John looked up he swore he saw more than fourteen people. Did they multiply, or did his vision?

Beside him was the car, banged up but not too damaged. There was a dent slightly caving in the passenger door, as if had hit something unyielding. It almost looked like a dimple, deep with five specific corners.

When Sherlock helped John onto the gurney, John noticed that underneath Sherlock’s right nails was something blue, the same color as the car itself.

There was no sweat on Sherlock’s brow, and no color in his cheeks.

Sherlock’s eyes were flying anywhere but John, yelling at people and demanding rudely at the paramedics. The hand covered with John’s blood was shoved in his pocket.

Sherlock wasn’t breathing evenly, only through his mouth and in quick, jolting gasps. They were narrow enough to avoid notice, but John was becoming skilled in Sherlockian subtleties.

John felt a bruise on his shoulder, where something that felt like metal had pushed him out of the way. Something strong, much stronger than human flesh.

 _‘Why humor it,’_ John thought vaguely, before succumbing to darkness.

 

*** * ***

 

“Three questions,” Sherlock began, once John felt himself swimming into consciousness. He could understand language, which was obviously a good sign. “You may ask me three questions, and then we never speak of today again. Agreed?”

John shifted further up his bed into a half-slouch, head filled with cotton and pain. His words came out in a quiet groan amidst the beeping machines. “So something _did_ happen, then?”

Sherlock blinked once, twice. “Is that your first question?”

John scowled at that, but pushed himself up further into something more comfortable. “No, no it’s not.” He could’ve leveled Sherlock with one of his no-nonsense stares, but he preferred to just close his eyes against the harsh lights. “How did you get to me so fast?”

“I told you,” came Sherlock’s voice. “I needed to go to Tesco’s for-“

“Save it,” John interrupted. He kept his eyes closed, but his brows were furrowed. “You're still not wearing a shirt underneath your dressing gown. If I look down, I won't see shoes. I know what I saw.”

Silence. And then, nearly a mumble: “I’m really quite fast, John.”

“But that doesn’t-“

“Next question.”

With a sigh, John let it go. For now. Opening his eyes, he watched Sherlock gnaw at his thumbnail, feeling himself get distracted before remembering that he had two more questions to ask. “There was a dent on the car, and paint under your nails. Did you stop the car from hitting me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. At John’s expectant look, Sherlock continued on. “That’s an easy explanation: adrenaline. It can push your muscles in ways you never thought possible, disregarding comfort and aiming for maximum strength. I’m a bit sore, to be honest, but I had a rush while pushing you out of the way. Even at the high speeds the car was going, I was able to stop it. I'm lucky that I didn’t break my arm.” He met John’s gaze, his long eyes thoughtful. “I’m sure you can Google it, Doctor.”

“No, I believe you,” John acquiesced. He didn’t, but that was the best he was getting for now. Sherlock seemed satisfied. “The most important question of all, why in the _bloody hell_ did you put mealworms in my kettle?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted, but it was more sheepish than anything else. “It was an experiment on you, to see how far I could push you. Surprisingly far, all things considered.”

John bit back a groan. “Might I ask _why?_ ”

Sherlock met his eyes levelly. “Because I want to learn everything I can about you, even if it means resorting to live experimentations. You’re the only one I can’t deduce, John, and you’re right. It drives me utterly _mad.”_

John closed his eyes again, suddenly exhausted. The heart monitor betrayed his reaction to the words. “Just… no more of that, unless you want my blood pressure to _literally_ go sky-high.” He turned his head in Sherlock’s direction, eyes still closed. “Just ask me whenever you want to do a _reasonable_ experiment, yeah? More than likely, I’ll agree to do it.”

“Understood.” His chair creaked as he began to lean back, their questionnaire over, but John held up one of his hands.

"If you could allow me one more question?" 

A grumble. "Fine."

John cracked one of his eyes open, and spoke in a whisper. “Can you sneak me out of here?”

Sherlock was caught off-guard for a moment, surprised that John didn’t question more about the earlier incident, but he recovered rather quickly. “Oh, John, I thought you’d never ask.” And then John’s favorite grin slid on Sherlock’s face, the crooked one that nudged his eyes and made him look so achingly _boyish_ , dark hair curled around an ethereal face.

And that’s how John knew he was completely and utterly fucked.


	5. invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a few moments, Sherlock's face morphed from shock into some sort of quiet outrage. “You… You think I regret saving your life?” Quick as a flash, Sherlock closed the distance between them to grip John’s biceps, face inches away. “You don’t know anything,” he hissed.

The first night back at the flat after the accident was the first night John dreamed of Sherlock Holmes.

The hills were dark and bathed in milky fog, the only source of light coming from the full moon above the trees. John recognized the scene instantly as the moorlands in Devon county, where he would visit his grandmother during his adolescence. The air was stiflingly humid, even during the nighttime.

Ahead, there was a figure - Sherlock. The pale of his hands matched the blinding white of the moon, as if he absorbed the light directly from it. He was walking away from John, and as fast as John ran, he just couldn't seem to catch up. He called his name, but Sherlock never acknowledged him. Eventually John awoke in a jolt, damp sheets tangled around his legs and alarm clock blinking 3:48. Troubled, he was unable to sleep again for the night.

Over the next few weeks, the dream repeated in regular intervals. He blamed the car incident, possibly the stress having flared up his PTSD, but he wasn’t too sure if that was the true underlying cause. He was afraid to look into the hidden meaning behind the dream; he already knew that his mental health was far too gone to be helped. 

At work, the accident only seemed to have thrown him into the center of attention.

“John!” Sarah cried the first day he returned to work, throwing her arms around him in place of her usual greeting, stretching herself over the counter. Awkwardly, John hovered his hands somewhere around her shoulder blades. A pre-Sherlock John Watson would never have given up an opportunity to press his body against a willing woman, but now he almost felt off-put by her curves and plush chest. Disturbed, he pasted a smile on his face and assured her that he was fine.

At home, the tensions were rising, and not the good kinds. Despite the (somewhat) openness back at the hospital, Sherlock soon became withdrawn and John found himself uncomfortable even being in the same room with him. Any olive branch of small talk John would offer would either be ignored, or barely reciprocated. They hadn’t worked together in weeks at Bart’s, even though John had glimpsed him in the halls of the college every once and again, meaning that Sherlock must have requested another assistant. John was hardly the wallowing type, but he couldn't help the spark of jealousy and hurt at the thought. Their contact was so limited that he didn’t even notice Sherlock’s monthly trip to France for whatever medicine (or illegal drug) he required, only noticing that his eyes were black one day and pale some day after. Whenever John _did_ catch Sherlock looking at him, it was filled with intense thought, the slant of his brow showing his frustration and his lips tight. Whenever he would realize that John had met his eyes, he would turn away.

Between the avoidance and the almost-glares, there was only one thing for John to deduce: when Sherlock had saved John from getting run over, for whatever reason, he was finding himself regretting it.

Was John not as interesting as Sherlock had thought? It was such a destructive thought, that John’s life wasn’t worth the effort due to his ordinariness. It was even worse to find himself upset at the idea. But Sherlock was part of his life now in whatever capacity, and the sudden cold shoulder thrown his way still stung. Days became weeks, and when it hit three full months of living at 221B, John was holed up in his room and utterly miserable.

It didn’t help that despite the tense atmosphere, he was still just so _drawn_ to the impossible man. Glimpsing his angelic face in the flat never failed to send a shock down John's spine, and when he was alone, he found himself frequenting Sherlock’s favorite spots in search of his alluring smell. His armchair, the windowsill, at the dining table. John, like the teenage girl he was, was trying to drown himself in the scent that was both natural and inhuman. Unlike any cologne on the market, yet so different from the natural emittance the human body could supply. He was obsessed, and it was bordering on a gross habit, but he just couldn’t stop.

The human body. There was an insane thought, the one that John found himself frequently entertaining. The idea that Sherlock wasn’t human, that everything he did was excused for the otherworldly material he was made of. That was obviously something John had to kick himself of; Sherlock had to be human, as there was nothing else he _could_ be.

Glimpses of a dented car and the fading bruise on John’s right shoulder came to mind, but it was only pushed away with annoyance.

Halfway through June, the halls of St. Bartholomew’s nearly empty and blasting its air near-freezing, John stumbled into Molly.

“Oh! Sorry, John, I wasn’t paying much attention.” She was scatterbrained as ever, but without Sherlock there distracting her, she was much more leveled. John picked up the file she dropped and handed it to her with a smile.

“No problem, Molly. How’s the morgue? Anything interesting?”

She laughed nervously. “Sherlock has already done his sweep over anything worth interest this morning.” She scratched at her ear, and shifted uncertainly on her feet. “Um, speaking of… there’s something I, erm, wanted to ask you.”

“Oh?”

She seemed to mull over how to word something, but in the end she blurted: “Are you going to the banquet?”

John blinked slowly, confused but trying not to make the girl even more anxious. “There’s a banquet?”

She closed her eyes, as if counting her breaths to measure them, only to open them and look anywhere but John. “It’s, um, the summer solstice banquet in a week. June 20th. The college likes to hold one to welcome any incoming students for the next semester, and they, erm, like to invite the workers as well.” She tried for a smile, but it was more of a grimace. “Sherlock never likes to go, but I didn’t know if you felt the same way…”

John smiled uncomfortably, trying to be nice but feeling like it wasn't a convincing performance. Lately, women haven’t been as easy to talk to as they had back in uni, in any capacity. “I appreciate the invitation, Molly, but I can’t. It’s my dad’s birthday next week, matter of fact.” It wasn’t a lie, actually. His father, rest in peace, lied in Devon next to John’s grandparents and further ancestors in a private cemetery. He took the trip on the years he could, and it was just a lucky coincidence that it lied on the day of the banquet.

Molly nodded quickly, unbothered by the turn of events. Her eyes kept flickering over his shoulder. “Of course, that’s fine. Tell him I said hi!”

“Actually-“

But Molly had already hurried off around the corner, gone in a moment. John watched her go thoughtfully, pursing his lips, before turning around to start his limp back down to the labs.

Sherlock was just down the hall, hand on the doorknob to one of the classrooms, and from what John could see he was shaking with quiet laughter. Instead of breaking the silence between them, it only irritated John. Who was _he_ to laugh at John’s discomfort? Sherlock schooled his features, but even while John glared at him, the taller man couldn’t completely hide the amusement from his eyes.

Feeling like a child, John spun around on his heel and stomped away down the opposite side of the hallway, his cane clicking against the floor. He heard a chuckle, as soft as velvet, and he stifled a growl.

 

*** * ***

 

At the cafeteria, John ran into Sarah, and the two ended up finding a small table to sit at with their lunch. While John saw her as only a friend, he had a feeling that she saw him as something more.

“John, that’s awful!” She giggled at something he said, her hand reaching out to brush against his forearm. He didn’t feel disgust at the touch, per say, but he didn’t find himself liking it as much as he should. Sarah was beautiful and witty and smart, and John felt broken by not being very interested.

When she brought up the banquet, John found himself wholly unsurprised.

“Do you have a date yet?” She asked lightly, feigning disinterest. John knew she was feigning, as her cheeks were a tad darker than earlier and her eyes kept flickering up to his face.

What was this, high school?

“To what?” He asked innocently. Because he was an idiot, apparently, and he was hoping that ignorance would scare her off. Obviously, he was wrong.

“The summer solstice banquet! It’s next Friday, and it’s always a lot of fun. I was hoping that we could go together.” Her smile was warm, so unlike Molly’s awkward invitation. Regardless, John felt that same discomfort.

“I, er, actually have plans. I’m going down near Plymouth, to visit my father’s grave. The 21st is the anniversary of his death, as well as his birthday, but I… usually leave the evening before to get the traveling out of the way. I’m sorry.”

Her happiness dimmed a bit, but she wasn’t upset. Her hand returned to his arm. “Of course, I’m sorry for your loss. There’s other times we can make a date, after all.”

With a grin, Sarah leaned over the table to peck his cheek. John smiled lightly, really trying to make it meet his eyes and seem less like a clumsy twist of his lips, and when she pulled back she seemed convinced. She bid him farewell, but he stayed at the table, ears red in personal embarrassment. Why was he so _awkward_ today, as if still going through puberty?

Across the dining hall, facing away but unmistakable, Sherlock’s shoulders were shaking once again and the people around him were giving him odd looks. He could’ve been crying, but John knew _damn_ well that he was laughing.

This time John _did_ growl, albeit under his breath, and he dropped his food into the trashcan with a _thunk!_ He adjusted his course of leave to pass by Sherlock, and when their eyes met he sent a glare with much more fervor than his previous one.

Sherlock only smiled, heartbreaking, and John convinced himself not to be affected.

He was, of course, unsuccessful.

 

*** * ***

 

“So, John, there’s this banquet coming up…”

John froze. Completely and thoroughly froze. Thomas, the shy scientist he was assisting for the evening, was nervously staring at his paper rather than writing on it. This could not be happening. It was a well-known fact that Thomas was gay, though John didn’t like to listen to the gossip of what the young man got up to outside of the workplace. They both were just acquaintances, after all, and it wasn’t John’s place to judge. He thought that the two were simply professional with the other.

Apparently not. John felt himself, sadly, more put off by the fact that he was being asked by a man than being asked for the third time that day in general. He stares at his flatmate’s ass on occasion, and suddenly there was a giant flashing **‘LIKES MEN’** arrow pointed straight towards him. Thomas was better off without a sod like him, really.

So what that Thomas had a cock? So did Sherlock, and that didn’t seem to be an issue. Or did it? John hadn’t really thought about that side of his anatomy, but he was sure that it was beautiful like the rest of Sherlock. Could a cock be beautiful?

Did Thomas think _his_ was beautiful?

_Can it, Watson. He could just be making conversation._

“… and I was wondering if you’d like to go to it with me?”

_Fuck._

“I can’t,” John stated, a tad too gruffly. He immediately felt bad; it wasn’t Thomas’s fault that Molly and Sarah had already eaten up his patience, after all, so he cooled it down. “I’m going out of town, family stuff.”

“Oh, okay,” Thomas said simply, tension draining from his shoulders. That had to be a massive perk when it came to dealing with men; for the most part, they didn’t feel the need to pry. An uncomfortable rock sat in John’s stomach, and he had to level his breathing.

What was _wrong_ with him? He felt discomfort with women, men, and the one person he _did_ feel comfortable with was ignoring him. Cheeks blazing, he excused himself to the bathroom. He might just leave; it was ten minutes until seven, when he shift ended. He had already cleaned up, anyway. Determined and feeling like a dick, he slid out of the room and into the empty hallway, taking in a gulp of air. Anxiety was clawing at his chest, and he had no idea why.

“Throw the poor man a bone, John, you’ve just broken his heart.”

John’s head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed. Surprise of surprises, Sherlock was leaning against the wall with a grin nudging his cheeks. John had to keep himself from exploding. “Why do you _care?”_ He demanded.

The smile dropped, and Sherlock almost looked puzzled. “I…”

“Save it,” John growled, storming down the hallway. Sherlock kept up with him easily, walking as if gliding on air. John couldn’t take it. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?” Sherlock shot back, infuriatingly calm.

John skidded to a stop, the grip on his cane shaking, and Sherlock halted as well. “Stop being… _you._ No, no, don’t give me that look, you know bloody well what I mean. Stop being graceful, and aloof, and flawless, and ignoring me, and brilliant, and just… _stop_. It’s infuriating.”

“You think I’m flawless?”

John nearly yanked at his hair in frustration. “ _Just…_ Why are you talking to me now? Aren’t you still angry?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “I was never angry, John, only… thinking. I wasn’t ignoring you, either.”

 _“Bullshit,”_ John spat. “I’ve seen you glaring at me, and reserving labs without telling Sarah to list me as your assistant. You were thinking? Thinking about _what?”_

“Three weeks and five days ago,” Sherlock said simply.

The day of the accident. John nodded stiffly. “What could you have been thinking about, might I wonder? I mean, I know what you’ve been thinking about, I just thought it only fair to ask.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? And what have I been thinking about?”

“Your regret,” John said evenly. “For pushing me out of the way. You don’t know why you did it, and you find yourself wondering why you even bothered. I’m too… _ordinary,_  is it?”

Sherlock froze, looking for an instant like an actual statue frozen in time. Only, in a few moments, his face morphed from incredulous shock into some sort of quiet outrage. “You… You think I _regret_ saving your life?” He nearly whispered.

John was beginning to feel uncertain stirrings in his ribcage, but he swallowed it down. “It’s obvious.”

Quick as a flash, Sherlock closed the distance between them to grip John’s biceps, face inches away. The cold of his palms seeped through the shirt, as hard and unyielding as a metal claw. _“You don’t know anything,”_ he hissed.

John’s eyes were wide, unblinking. So _that_ _’s_ how people could be scared of Sherlock. On the receiving end, the man was much more intimidating than he could have ever imagined, teeth bared and eyes blazing with liquid ferocity. It was like the first time they had met, and if John hadn't been paying attention, he would've guessed that Sherlock absolutely despised him in this very moment. However, John was an army man; he knew how to stand his ground.

“For God's sake, Sherlock, what am I supposed to think?” John questioned, shaking off Sherlock’s hands. They kept the same distance, close enough that John could see barely-there flecks of gold close to Sherlock’s pupil. Those same pupils dropped to John's mouth, and then back up again. “When you ignore me for a month after a very specific turning point, there’s not much else I can figure. Between this and all of the things you’re not telling me, it's a medical miracle that I don't have whiplash.”

A tense moment, and then Sherlock let out a quiet sigh, his face losing some of its hardness. “I do apologize for ignoring you these last few weeks, it was not my intention. I do _not_ apologize for your ignorant conclusions in my direction, though. Of course I don’t regret saving your life. You’ll find that I feel quite the opposite in every scenario, when it comes to keeping you alive.”

Warmth pooled in John’s belly, but he still felt awfully tense. Leaning further on his cane, he scratched at his head with a shaking hand. “Alright, then. I… I’m glad to hear that. And, er, likewise.”

Sherlock gave a nod, eyes searching John’s one last time, before he seemed satisfied and took a step back to a more appropriate distance. “Now that that's settled, John, there’s something I wanted to ask you. Next week, on Friday…”

“Not you too!” John groaned. “ _N_ _o._ Honestly, after everything that’s happened-“

But Sherlock was laughing. “Come now, John, you don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

John felt some of the harsh lines seep from his shoulders at the beautiful sound. He was still cautious, but Sherlock had a way of calming him down as much as he could rile him up. “Oh? What ever were you going to ask, then?”

“I overheard that you’re visiting your father’s grave in Devon, for the anniversary of his death. Would you like to have company?”

“With who?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Me, obviously.”

“Usually, the trip is more of a private affair,” John said warily, face betraying his doubt.

“All the more reason I should join you.” Sherlock, for all the glamor and confidence he inherently carried, suddenly looked unsure. “I know that I have been difficult to live with… and that I’ve been avoiding you lately, however circumstantially. And that won’t change, my constant mood swings and sudden sulks. But I’m… _tired_ of staying away from you, John. Even if it’s for your own good.”

John felt his eyebrows come together. “My own good? Sherlock, I’m an adult. I’ve been to war, I’ve- just. No. I can handle life in danger of criminals ambushing us in the street and rogue experiments, you know.”

“But what if I’m not talking about the criminals and experiments?” He murmured.

John locked his jaw closed, an impossible notion clouding at his mind. He had questions, millions of them, in fact. What was Sherlock talking about? He spoke carefully in that baritone voice, as if he was limited in the words he could voice aloud. Whenever it came to John, he was never the person he put out to the public, more personal and familiar even when giving John the cold shoulder. He was becoming such a large part in John’s life, so much so that John couldn’t help but entertain the thought.

Was Sherlock Holmes dangerous?

“I'd like for you to meet my father,” John answered instead.  

That night, in John’s dreams, Sherlock stopped walking away. He kept his front turned and still ignored his name on John’s lips, but it was progress.


	6. blood type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed as though Sherlock’s secrets went far beyond London, possibly even into the villages west of Dartmoor. The signs pointed, oddly enough, to the town John's father was buried in. But that was impossible, it had to be. "While we're there," Sherlock said quietly, "Call me William Scott."

The day before John and Sherlock left for Plymouth was the day of the monthly blood drive at Bart’s. This, of course, meant that Sherlock wouldn’t be coming in to the labs.

“What blood type are you?” John asked that morning, a whim of a question. He was sipping a coffee, his drink of choice after a sleepless night; recently, a near daily occurrence.

“AB+,” Sherlock answered promptly, not even glancing up from his laptop. He was still dripping from his shower. “I’m not donating blood, John.”

“Rare type,” John commented. “I suppose not.”

Sherlock huffed. “Dreadful thing, donating blood,” he said offhandedly. “My iron is low enough already. Just thinking about blood makes me dizzy.”

“You’re around blood on a daily basis, though, what with the labs and those crime scenes you go to.”

It was quiet for a moment. “Not the same,” Sherlock finally decided.

“… Of course.” John shot him a strange look, but just like the rest of the madman’s mysteries, he let it go. “Are you packed for tomorrow, then?”

Sherlock shook his head, wet curls limp against his forehead. John always thought that he applied product to make his finished hair so perfect, but it seemed to dry that way naturally. “Not yet. How long are we staying?”

John shrugged. “It’s not exactly a vacation, Sherlock, more like a visit to pay respect. We can be back by Saturday night if we check the rail times.”

“I have a car, actually, in a car park just ten minutes from here. It’s been gathering up dust lately. What do you say to airing it out?”

They stared at each other for a few moments, both with a quirk to their brow, before John acquiesced with a sigh. “We are back Sunday night at the latest.”

“Of course.”

“While we’re there, I expect you to eat at least half of every meal I give you.”

“Understood.”

“And I swear, if you drug me _one more time-“_

“ _John_.”

John locked his jaw shut, and Sherlock snorted through his nose. The taller man scrubbed a towel through his soaked hair. “Go to work, help out with the drive. I’ll be packed when you return.”

“Sounds like a plan.” It was so domestic, this scene they were in, that John felt himself wanting to drop a kiss atop the man’s head. He didn’t, but it was a close thing. “Well, I’m off.”

At work, the scent of blood seemed to cling to John’s clothes as more and more people piled in to donate. He had never been bothered by the smell, being a doctor and all, but Sherlock alerted something about it that morning. As he drew the next donor’s pint, he felt himself practically tasting the salt-and-copper tang of her blood at the back of his tongue. He scrunched his nose, feeling a tad green. The woman he was drawing from gave him an odd look. John, awkward as ever, patched her up early and sent her on her way.

“Still not going to the banquet, then?” Sarah asked, readying her own patient’s arm for the needle. She was the secretary, to be fair, so John was surprised to hear that she had an actual nursing degree. He shook his head, waving over the next person in line and unpacking a new syringe.

“No, I’m leaving tomorrow for Devon. I’m… sad I’m missing it, though.”

She had an odd smile on her face. “You know… Sherlock cancelled his lab reservation for tomorrow.”

“Oh?” John asked lightly.

“Oh,” she agreed. “Is that a coincidence?”

He cleaned at the skin above the next person’s vein, keeping his eyes trained downward. “Not exactly.”

She hummed after that, but then her patient asked her a question, and they both got drawn into their work. He felt her eyes on him all morning. When the drive officially ended, just before three, John went ahead and clocked out before she could ambush him. At the flat, Sherlock was gone, and didn’t show back up until it had become nighttime.

_“John, wake up.”_

“’M awake,” John mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He had dozed off in his armchair to the sound of London traffic, his neck stiff from the too-low headrest. “Where’ve you been?”

“… Out.” He hesitated slightly, but John was too tired to really notice. He _did_ notice that Sherlock’s eyes seemed even more silver, and the slight fatigue he’d been showing lately was suddenly swept away. It was too early for his monthly France trip, but the man was newly refreshed nonetheless. Sherlock was nearly whispering. “Were you kept waiting for long?”

“Wasn’t waiting,” John protested half-heartedly, before he realized it wasn’t the truth. Shaking his head to clear out the webs, John sat up in his chair. “What time is it?”

“Just past eleven.” He set John with a slightly disapproving look. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

“Not well. I thought you couldn’t deduce me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, lowering himself into his own armchair opposite John’s. With John this slouched and Sherlock this tall, their feet nearly touched. “Even Mrs. Hudson could make that deduction.” His next words were quiet. “Are you having nightmares?”

John tried to shrug, but it was more like a barely-there nudge of his shoulder. “Yeah, can’t seem to shake ‘em.” The Sherlock dreams had faded whenever tensions eased between them, and instead had been replaced by the death-filled snippets of Afghanistan. It was better to stay awake than experience _those_ again, was John’s logic.

He almost jumped out of his skin when a hand landed on his knee, gentle and cool as snow. “I wish I could help you,” Sherlock murmured. “You don’t deserve to be this deprived of sleep.”

John smiled grimly. “You don’t know what I deserve.”

“You were an army doctor.”

“I had bad days.”

Sherlock was still unconvinced. In a burst of courage, John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Really. These dreams tend to come and go in cycles, I’ve noticed. They’ll be gone soon enough.”

Those slender fingers were far from relaxed, as if Sherlock would pull them away at any moment, but he held still. “I wish they wouldn’t come back, then.”

Why was he being so unabashedly kind? Usually he would keep his gentle nature subtle, and then cover it with an insult to save face. Now, John’s heart was throbbing with such ferocity that he’s sure Mrs. Turner’s married ones next door could hear it. He tried to shift the focus. “What do you dream about?”

“I don’t dream,” Sherlock answered immediately.

“That’s right, you’d have to sleep every once in awhile to dream,” John joked.

Sherlock looked almost sad, if not for the upward tilt of his mouth. “Quite right.”

With a lasting squeeze to the hand under his, John stood up. He grappled for his cane somewhere behind him, while Sherlock watched his leg with near frustration. “I’ve got to get to bed, if I’m going to be ready for work tomorrow.”

Sherlock leaned further back in his chair and waved a hand, schooling his features into something more impassive. “I called in. You’re not scheduled tomorrow, we’re leaving for Plymouth at noon if we’re to secure a hotel early enough. It’ll take nearly five hours to drive there.”

 _It takes the rail three and a half_ , John wanted to say, but he (wisely) didn’t. “Right. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Of course.”

John meant to say something more, but Sherlock was already deep within the recesses of his mind. There’d be no getting him back for a while more, so John retired for the night.

  
  
*** * ***

  
  
“Careful!”

Sherlock tilted his head in John’s direction, lazy as ever despite the fact that they were barreling 20 over the speed limit just inside of London. He drove a jeep, fully loaded and matte black with industrially-tinted windows. The ray-bans he wore were sharply attractive. “What? I’ve never crashed in this car before, and the last few that were totaled could hardly be classified as fatal. I prefer to drive fast, is all.”

John, oddly enough, wasn’t appeased. “Eyes on the road! Why are you wearing sunglasses anyway? Even if it _was_ clear outside, these windows are practically military grade.”

He turned his head again, and they narrowly missed a curb. His teeth were perfect and blindingly white in a crooked grin. “Because you like the way I look in them.”

John tried to protest, ears burning, but anything he said would just incriminate him further. What argument could be made, anyway? The man was undeniably gorgeous, after all, and unfortunately said man was all too aware of the fact himself. With harsh movements, John jabbed on the radio and settled into his (comfortable) seat as vague pop music played. Sherlock chuckled at the display.

The last of London’s reach narrowed out, and soon they were flying down the M4 through the flatlands and open sky, occasionally jolting over stumpy hills. John kept his eyes distinctly away from the speedometer, though he couldn’t help but notice that they passed up every car on the motorway, weaving to and fro between the sparse traffic.

Sherlock was completely in his element, practically molded into his leather seat with one hand propped on the wheel in, truthfully, the most relaxed pose John’s ever seen him in. He was rare in this human casualness, both in body language and fashion. He wore dark jeans and a thin v-neck, long sleeves pushed up to his elbows and neckline cutting just below the hollow of his throat. The burgundy color was fetching, John noticed, though there were few colors that Sherlock wouldn’t look good in. Troubled, John stripped himself of his jumper to the gray tee underneath, much too hot despite the air-conditioning. He leaned over the console to throw it on the backseat.

When he straightened, Sherlock was looking his way. The volume of the song they were listening to lowered. “I can make the trip in less than four hours, I’d bet,” he said conversationally.

The original estimate was five, but John wouldn’t be surprised, not at this speed. “If we survive it,” he replied.

“If we survive it,” Sherlock repeated slowly, amused. He seemed to always be amused at John. “Do you trust me so little?”

“I trust you,” John said quickly, without thinking. He didn’t need thought to have his answer. “I just don’t trust the other drivers.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, a barely-there dimple flashing beside his mouth worriedly. “You shouldn’t, you know. Trust me.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said lightly, almost carefully. “I do, though.”

It was so quiet, Sherlock staring straight ahead, that John thought the conversation was over. It was a surprise when he heard: “When did your father pass away?”

John shot over a curious look, but this just seemed to be the beginning of one of those frequent conversations where all Sherlock did was ask questions. “He died when I was in uni. I was doing my basics before I went to Bart’s for training. It has to have been, what, fourteen years? Yeah, fourteen. I had just turned twenty.”

“How did he die?”

“Drunk driving, meaning he was the driver. Floored it straight into a tree. Night of his birthday, matter of fact.” John shrugged. He had loved his father, but he had known that his alcoholism would be the end of him. “It hurt for a while, but it also forced me to take life a bit more seriously. I’m realizing now that he’s probably the reason I went into the army.”

“And your mother...?”

“Alive,” John said. “And well. She calls me all the time, I’m surprised you haven’t heard her. She’s quite the talker.”

Sherlock made a surprised noise. “Oh, _her?_ I always thought you were getting calls from an overbearing ex-girlfriend, desperate to get you to visit.”

“That sums it up,” John said dryly, earning a chuckle.

The air tangibly took a change. “So, no then?” Sherlock asked, too nonchalant.

“Hmm?”

“No… overbearing exes?”

John shifted in his seat. “I never dated a woman long enough to warrant one, I’d imagine. At least lately.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, uncommonly awkward. John found it endearing. “No… boyfriends, then?”

John’s eyebrows shot up so far, he almost felt them brush his hair. He opened his mouth, closed it, mulled it over a bit, and decided. “Nope, not lately there either.”

Not ever, but that didn’t get the point across quite as well.

Sherlock just settled for a quiet “Ah,” merging over into the next lane smoothly. John swallowed, feeling a sheen of sweat begin underneath his tee.

“No girlfriends, as well?”

He snorted. “Not really my area.”

Though the man was still facing straight ahead, John swore he felt his eyes on him. “And boyfriends?”

Sherlock tilted his face down and to the side, so he could meet John’s eyes above his glasses. His lashes were dark and full. “No,” he murmured.

John wasn’t an idiot, despite what a certain detective-consultant-or-whatever liked to say. If it were anyone else, the signs would be blinding enough that John would’ve already asked them to dinner long ago. The constant looks in his direction only seemed to grow more heated lately, and touches between the two were becoming commonplace.

But it wasn’t anybody else. It was Sherlock Holmes, the achingly beautiful man that seemed stuck in the balance between pulling John closer and pushing him away. The man that frowned as much as he smiled. The absolute, unmatched genius that should have no interest in John, in his ordinariness nor his simple mind. The facts remained, with no regard for right or wrong; Sherlock was interested in John. Whether it was platonic or not, John couldn’t tell, but he almost didn’t mind the answer. Almost.

Feeling particularly brave, John pressed an arm against the center console to lean over. Sherlock, only sparing a glance back at the road, watched him close in with unmasked interest. “Good,” John said with purpose, running his tongue slightly along his bottom lip. Sherlock followed the movement with rapt attention, mouth parting.

Maybe not so platonic, then. Even more conflicted than before, John settled back into his seat and nudged the volume up on the radio. Sherlock, face scrunched in contemplation, put both hands on the wheel in alternating fists while they continued their drive.

As the sun lowered in the sky, it set its shine directly against the windshield. Though the glass was tinted heavily enough, John nevertheless lowered his billfold to keep the glare from his eyes. Sherlock practically glowed in the dim light, so pale and opaque like he was soaking up the sunshine like a moon. He offered his sunglasses, but John declined.

Soon, more and more signs were announcing Plymouth as the car drew nearer. It was just after four in the afternoon, meaning that Sherlock had made good on his time estimate. Inside the city, John was at a loss.

“Usually I stay at the town he’s buried in northeast of here, if I stay at all,” John said, straining his eyes for a motel. “There’s a small bed and breakfast there, but it’s only one bed and, like I said, rather small. I’ve never come here the day before, so I figured Plymouth would be a better idea.”

Sherlock turned down one of the main streets, keeping a lookout as well. “You told Sarah that you always left the night before.”

“I lied to get out of going to the banquet.” John grimaced. “I don’t like crowds of people very much, nor loud music. Not really my ‘scene’.”

“I sincerely empathize with you there,” Sherlock said gravely.

Eventually, Sherlock found an inn that seemed much too grandiose for a casual two-night stay. Also well out of John’s price range, if he paid half. Sherlock, for all of his whining over being unable to read John easily, seemed to hear the unspoken question directly from its source.

“I pay for the lodging, you pay for the food and anything else we run into. Agreed?”

John was wary, but otherwise not feeling up for anything close to an argument. “Yeah, alright. At least get us one room, to keep the price down.”

Sherlock shifted the jeep into park and jumped out onto the pavement. As he walked, he in no way seemed sore from the hours of cramped sitting, but then again he _was_ Sherlock. Lately, John tended to section him off into his own category whenever doing something irregular. He more emulated a storybook character than a mere mortal, anyway.

Sherlock emerged with a couple room keys, somehow making his hop back into the driver’s seat full of grace. He handed one over to John. “One room, two doubles, fifth floor. There were hardly any rooms left, what with it being summertime and Plymouth being beachside, so it’s reserved until Monday morning.” He huffed out a sigh at John’s expression. “I’m not saying we’ll still be here, it’s merely a precaution.”

John grumbled something in response, but pocketed the card anyway. Clouds were quickly rolling in, covering up the sun until the sunlight was merely diffused. Upon finding a parking spot and switching gears to park, the pair opened their doors in unison and slid to the ground.

Well, Sherlock did. John, underestimating the drop as well as the stiffness of his bad leg after four hours of disuse, hit the pavement wrong and nearly crumpled to the concrete. But then Sherlock was there, a cool arm wrapped around his waist to steady him before his knees could make contact.

John was about to thank him, slightly embarrassed, before making a realization with narrow eyes. His tone was accusatory. “You got out of the car the same time I did.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. “I’m fast.”

John pushed away, not harshly but none too gently either. “So I’ve heard.” Grabbing his cane and duffel, he marched inside, ignoring the posh-looking interior that matched its posh-looking exterior. He wanted to ask Sherlock what the end price was, but he also _really_ didn’t want to know.

The room was modest, the furniture well-crafted but not flashy. Dropping his things onto the bed closest to the door, John scrubbed a hand over his face as Sherlock inspected the room service menu with little interest. It was nearing on five, and while Plymouth had much to offer, John was wrung out from the drive.

“Dinner, then rent a movie?” He offered.

Sherlock nodded vacantly, and then disappeared into the bathroom. John, with a great huff of breath, fell back into his pillows. He felt his bad leg buzz, as if the muscles were tensing uncontrollably, before he realized it was just his phone vibrating.

The number was unknown. “Hello?”

“Hey, John, it’s Mary.”

John drew up a blank. “Oh, er, hi?”

A laugh, and then: “Mary Morstan, from Stansex?”

Stansex was the name of the village John’s grandparents had lived, as well as where his father was buried. A memory of blonde pigtails muddy from the ditches in the moors flashed through his mind, before he made a sound of recognition. “Mary! It’s been, what, nearing a decade since we last talked? How’ve you been?”

He could practically hear her pretty smile over the phone. “I’ve been well! I hope you don’t mind I asked Harry for your new number. I tried calling your old one, but it told me it was disconnected.”

With the cell phone switch months ago, John had only really given his mum and Harry the new number. No one else was immediately necessary. “No, no, not a problem. What’s the lucky occasion?”

“Well, I heard that you came back from Afghanistan, so I was wondering if you were going to pay your father a visit? Like you used to?”

Sherlock took a step out of the bathroom, questioning, but John waved him away. “How did the news travel all the way out there?”

“It’s a small town, John. We don’t have much to talk about.”

John huffed under his breath. “Fair enough. Truth be told, I’m already in Plymouth. I’m coming by tomorrow.”

She _tsk_ ed into the receiver. “Really, John, you know you always have a place at the B&B. We just upgraded to air-conditioning this last winter.”

“Oh, thank god!” He exclaimed, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. “Remember the last time I was there? Your mum thought I pissed the bed, my sweat drenched the sheets so bad.”

She laughed. “Speaking of mum, she would love to see you! You absolutely have to meet us at the inn for lunch, after you pay your respects.”

“Without a doubt, we’ll be there.”

Her tone had a higher lilt to it. “We?”

He began pacing, absentminded strolling by the window. “Oh, yeah, I travelled here with my flatmate.” That by itself sounded weird, so he tried to elaborate. “He’s… well, he’s a close friend of mine, so we made the trip.”

“Oh! Well, I’d love to meet him.” There was a bit of noise on the other side of the line, and when she came back on she was frantic. “Well, I have to go, but- say, do you think you’ll still be in the area til Sunday?”

“It’s looking like it, why?”

“Well, the gang is planning on heading into Dartmoor tomorrow evening, out towards Red Lake. Just the usual, drinking and catching up. Would you like to join?”

John hesitated. “By ‘the gang’, you mean…”

“Me, Thomas, Ronnie, Gillian, and Darcy. We all ended up staying in the village, after all.”

That was the group (save maybe one or two) that John would spend months with every summer up until his mid-teens, whenever his grandparents died. His visits then mellowed out up to his twenties, and then the several years of June 21st visits until his deployment. Despite his usual wariness towards social situations, John found himself entertaining the idea. “You know what? I’d love to join.”

“Great! Oh, and you can invite your flatmate, we don’t mind.”

John winced slightly, but before he could say anything she rushed out a good-bye and the line went dead. It was doubtful that Sherlock would endure a polite drink by the lake with strangers. Thoughtful, John rubbed his thumb over the inscription on the back of his cell before sliding it into his pocket. He glanced up, where Sherlock was staring at him a bit more clinically than usual. Specifically, at his waist.

“Your leg,” he said simply, voice low in comparison to Mary’s bright one. “You’re walking without a limp.”

John furrowed his eyebrows and glanced down to his feet, which had been pacing the hotel room without even the smallest jolt. Unfortunately, when Sherlock called attention to it, he felt the damned muscles begin to lock up. “Shit,” he muttered, plopping back onto the bed as if his strings had been cut. His phone was jabbing into his side, so he pulled it out of his jeans pocket and dropped it to the bed.

Sherlock watched him expectedly, eyes flickering to the phone. John shrugged. “Old friend, seeing if I was still coming to the village. Before the army and after my father’s death, the visits were like clockwork.”

“You’re… familiar with her,” he grappled, unsure of his words. “You weren’t thinking about your leg. We both know it’s psychosomatic, but talking to her took the thought completely out of it.”

John paused, tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek, before letting his eyes roll at the implication. “I’m not in love with Mary, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s an old friend, never was anything more than that.”

She could’ve been, but that was a story for another time.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as if he could read John’s thoughts, but turned out it was for a different reason. “What was the name of your village, again?”

“Stansex. Great history of the namesake, one that I can’t for the life of me remember.”

Sherlock’s lips tilted and his neck rolled skyward, as if he was saying _'of course'._ Instead: “’Territory of the stone’. It’s an old myth, a legend I’m sure you’d remember if given the right reminder. A legend that may have some merit, might I add. Lovely town, if a bit small. The smell of wet moss clung to me for days afterwards. When we go there tomorrow, I have a rather odd request.”

Sherlock knew of Stansex? Been there, even? Of course he had, he’s Sherlock. “And that would be?”

Long fingers straightened at the bedclothes, and his voice had an unfamiliar edge to it. “My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you see. While we’re there… Introduce me as William Scott.”

John’s brain buzzed out. Huh? That was probably the _last_ thing John was thinking the man would request, aside from literally showing up naked. “Huh?” He said eloquently.

But, for once, Sherlock didn’t comment on John’s idiocy. “No questions. Odds are, they’ll recognize me anyway, but… please. William Scott. Alright?”

 _No questions_. John was well-acquainted with that rule. _What did Sherlock do to my town? Oh, god, he didn’t set something on fire, did he?_ The moors were very flammable. Shaking his head from those thoughts, the only thing he could do was meet Sherlock’s eyes equally. He tried to fill his stare with conviction. He was making it as clear as he could that this was a subject that he was willing to let go for now, but not forever. “Okay,” he said slowly.

Sherlock dipped his head, both a thanks and an acknowledgement. The room cleared a bit. “I was thinking ordering room service; it looks as if it’s going to rain.”

Even though the sun was out earlier, the sky was far from cloudless. It really wasn’t a surprise. “Fine by me, as long as you eat half of it. I’ll look through the telly for a pay-per-view.” He paused, fingers toying with the remote. “Say, Sherlock- if I invited you to a lake tomorrow evening with me and a group of people from the village, would you go?”

Sherlock was dialing. “Which lake?”

“Red Lake, I believe.”

He sucked in a hiss through his teeth, cradling the phone between neck and shoulder as he perused the menu. “No can do, busy.”

“But you asked-“

“Hi, yes, I’d like an order of the steak, rare as you’ll cook it, and- John, would you like the Caesar salad or the fish and chips? I can’t tell how light of a mood you’re in.”

Lips pursed, John was still staring at him in poorly-masked contemplation. “The salad,” he said vaguely, voice seeming far away. Sherlock gave him a thoughtful kind of look but turned back to the window, already onto the desserts.

It seemed as though Sherlock’s secrets went far beyond London, possibly even into the villages west of Dartmoor. The signs seemed to point, oddly enough, to John’s small town of Stansex. But that was impossible, it had to be. England was far too big, and Stansex was far too specific. Something didn’t add up, and it ate at John’s spine terribly.

Here were the facts: as was the way of life, there was important information Sherlock was keeping to himself.

Either John was taking the piss, or Red Lake was something Sherlock deemed off-limits.

Sherlock was familiar with Stansex.

In one way or another, Stansex was familiar with Sherlock.

There was only one way to find out the truth. While Sherlock’s back was turned, haggling over wines, John grabbed his phone and texted the newest number in his recent calls.

_Have you heard of the name Sherlock Holmes? JW_

The response was near-instantaneous.

_Sherlock Holmes? I thought he was a myth. - Mary_

Closing his eyes and letting his fingers grasp at the bridge of his nose, John felt something with the weight of a rock drop in his stomach. God help him.


	7. scary stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock Holmes ripped the limbs from the man, and began draining the body of blood. It is said that if he ever returns to the moors, an ancient curse will be freed and, in overall terms, something bad will happen,” Mary said, obviously disbelieving. John swallowed with a dry throat, and blood rushed an orchestra past his ears as he pretended not to believe, either.

The cemetery was quaint, in a word, a family of moss-draped oaks bathing the land in a greenish hue. The late afternoon was sharp with a dry wind flying over the moors. The gravestones were in no particular order nor structure, and as far as John could tell, there has been no new additions since the last time he visited. It took much too long to find his father’s slab.

“I found it,” Sherlock called from further back in the small clearing. He was cleaning off the lichens from the stone with his elbow, sleeves bunched at the bicep. John limped his way over, careful on the slick ground beneath his feet.

“ _’Here lies Edward J. Watson, beloved father and friend’_ ,” Sherlock read aloud, using a handkerchief to wipe the green off his arm as he stood. “He had just turned thirty-eight the day he passed. You said that you were twenty at the time?”

John nodded, cleaning off the rest of the slab. He placed the bundle of lilies he brought at the base. “Yeah, me and Harry weren’t exactly planned. They were just a young couple who weren’t careful, and got twins on their first try.”

Sherlock made a low noise under his breath, oddly complacent for such a (relatively) boring outing. John, with a steadying hand on the stone, bent down to straighten the flowers and clean off the rest of the moss. He paused. “Huh.”

“What?”

John reached behind the gravestone, and then straightened back up. He felt Sherlock at his back, emitting more cold than heat, and he glanced over John’s shoulder to see what he held.

In his hand was a dark blue rose, almost black around the edges.

It was difficult to confuse Sherlock Holmes in matters that weren’t about the inner workings of John Watson. Yet, when John glanced to his side, Sherlock’s face inches away, it was to a drawn brow and quick-blinking eyes.

“Blue,” Sherlock said slowly, voice so deep it vibrated into the earth. “Artificially colored, obviously. I don’t precisely know the meaning behind the color, though I do know that roses are not a common flower to bring to a gravesite, unless the one who brings it had a romantic relationship with the deceased.” His head quirked, a question. “Is your mother here?”

“No, and she wouldn’t bring one.”

“Shame, I would’ve loved to meet her. Did your father ever remarry?”

“No, I don’t believe so at least. The town paid for the tombstone, courtesy of Mary’s fundraising – if he had a wife, she would’ve paid for it. And there would be something about ‘husband’ on the grave.”

Sherlock rumbled, and John refrained a shiver. “Very good. I’ll make a detective out of you yet.” He stepped back and around, to glance behind the gravestone as if someone was hiding. His full lips were pursed. “Mary successfully fundraised for the stone, which means that he was well-liked around the town. Any number of people could’ve left this.”

For once, Sherlock was the sane one. John’s mind was racing all around from mistress to secret child, so he let himself fall into Sherlock’s words instead of his own delusions. He placed the rose over the lilies he left. “Yeah, you’re right. Come on, let’s make the trek back.”

Dropping a hand on each of his grandparents’ headstones as he walked, John slowly but surely made his way to the main path, Sherlock at his side.

John bumped his arm. “He would’ve liked you, you know. My dad. Instead of reading children’s books like mum did, he’d read us murder mysteries before bed.”

Sherlock snorted. “So he’d like me because I’m clever?”

“Well, that’s not why I like you,” John replied. After a beat, Sherlock nudged him back in acknowledgement.

The walk back to Stansex was a good twenty minutes, as the cemetery was shared between several towns. John had managed to make the walk there closer to an hour, but he was pleasantly surprised by the way Sherlock had slowed his pace and never tried to rush. Months of walking to Bart’s had strengthened John’s stamina with the cane if not his speed. Luckily, the walk was on a cobblestone pavement that was in relatively good condition.

“That was painless,” Sherlock commented. John hummed under his breath.

“I’ve never been the one to prattle on– that was always Harry’s job.” He felt himself smile, eyes glazing over, and he chuckled under his breath.

“What?” Sherlock questioned.

John shook his head. “Oh, it’s nothing, just- well. A memory.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I don’t mind.”

The Sherlock way of saying ‘please go on, I secretly want to hear more but asking for it wouldn't match my aloof facade’. John didn’t know if he’d ever get used to this seemingly detached man being so interested in his life, and he wasn’t going to start now.

“When I was young, me and my sister would come to Stansex to visit our grandparents every summer,” John began, building up a consistent rhythm in his steps. “We’re twins, as you know. The thing about Harry is that she never knows when to stop talking. Anyway, during dinner one night, she was going a mile a minute over any and everything she could think of. Our birthday is right before summer started, and we were starting to want separate birthday parties. So they were talking about moving my party back, and holding it whenever we came over to visit so I could have it with my friends that lived in the village. Harry was quiet for a moment, gears turning, before asking ‘when is Johnny’s birthday?’” He said the last part nasally, breaking off with a laugh. “She tried to cover it up, saying that she was just making a joke, but her cheeks were flaming red. I couldn’t stop laughing for hours, she was pissed at me for a week.”

Sherlock was chuckling as John finished, dimples flashing. “I’d love to meet her too, then.”

John’s laughs dimmed. “Ah… I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“She’s not a people person,” John said carefully. At the look on Sherlock’s face, he quickly continued. “No, no, not like you – you may not like people, but you’re at least semi-neutral about it. Most of the time. Harry… she lives off of anger. Makes people disappointed in her in the beginning, so expectations can’t go anywhere but up. I’ve learned to live with it and, well, twin connection I guess. It’s just… I don’t need to give her anymore fuel for the fire.”

Sherlock was contemplative. “I have a brother, you know. Seven years my elder.”

“Really?” John had never heard him even hint at that before. What did the brother look like? Was he as beautiful as Sherlock? Could he deduce? Even more – could he deduce John, unlike Sherlock? “Will I ever be able to meet him?”

“Oh, I imagine it’ll happen sooner or later.” His smile flashed crooked as he looked down, as if laughing at a secret joke. His words contradicted the grin. “I absolutely loathe the man, as he likes to stick his big fat nose where it doesn’t belong. That being said, expect a visit from him in the coming months.”

“That sounds ominous,” John said.

“Would you expect anything less from a Holmes?”

It's not as if he had more than one frame of reference. His lips quirked. “Not at all.”

At the village, John was pleasantly surprised by the modernity of it all. It was never too traditional – there had always been cars, and running water, and basic electricity. There had even been a movie theatre, albeit a drive-in with barely enough space for twelve cars. Only today, there were full-blown roads, and even a bank. There were two schools now rather than one, and instead of there being a small farmer’s market, there was an actual chain supermarket. Mary had told him that she had just gotten air conditioning for the inn – he hoped that applied for the other places in the town, as well.

In London, for every two weeks of overcast, there was one sunny day. That, in itself, resulted in a lot of rain. Devon county was no exception. There was no warmth to the sunlight, only a dim glow that the clouds diffused. John didn’t hear any thunder, but his shoulder was slightly throbbing from the energy of the air.

“Rain,” Sherlock said off-handedly. John muttered in agreement.

The thing about Stansex was that it lived up to its name. In older English, ‘stan’ meant stone and ‘-sex’ meant territory. Territory of the stone. While stone was a recurring material used all over Dartmoor and its towns, in Stansex it practically sprouted up and grew with the foliage. Every house was made of stone, every bench and table, all the way from the ground up. It was a beautiful theme, green moss draping over weathered stone, and John was struck by the sheer loveliness of it all that he had forgotten.

The bed and breakfast was in the best condition he’d ever seen, bursting with spring-grown flowers of all shapes and colors. Before he walked in, though, he hesitated.

“So,” he started, sparing a glance beside him. Sherlock was just taking everything in, eyes darting from the windows to the fence peeking from behind the house to the trees backdropping it all. He started slightly at John’s voice. “Are you… William Scott, today?”

He nodded, eyes oddly bright. “Yes, but please control yourself. If you call me ‘Billy’ even once, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

John huffed out a laugh, but it was rather dry. He cleared his throat. “Are… will you ever tell me why?”

“No.”

John nodded. “Right, okay.”

Sherlock held the door open for the both of them, and John entered first.

“Hello, welcome to…” The words died off as the woman rounded the corner, once she caught sight of who entered. Her pink lips stretched into a grin and the papers in her hands fluttered to the ground. “John!”

He tried to greet her back, if not for the collision that knocked the breath out of his chest. His hand tightened on his cane and his other arm wrapped around her waist, laugh muffled but genuine. “Hello to you too, Mary.”

She made a vaguely happy noise in response. Time had done nothing but amplify Mary Morstan’s beauty, her looks now more mature than they were, once upon a time. Her pretty blonde hair was short, and she wore a floral jumper with jeans. She smelled nice. He was, in a sort of immature way, still happy that she was shorter than him, if just barely. She pulled back to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s been so long!” She cried, cheeks flush as she withdrew. Collecting the papers she dropped, she stuck them behind the front desk as she straightened at her clothes.  
John had almost forgotten that Sherlock was behind him. Almost. “Oh, Mary, this is my flatmate… er, William Scott.” Despite the slight hitch, he played it off well enough. As if for the first time, Mary noticed that John wasn’t alone.

When she glanced up, her smile dropped. Not entirely, but with the barest tensing of her shoulders, it turned into something more ingenuine. Pasted on. A barely-there shiver racked down her body, and if she had hackles, they’d be positively raised. Her eyes didn't meet his, not exactly. John took an involuntary step back. Jesus Christ, what did Sherlock _do?_

Sherlock held out his pale hand, fingers relaxed. “Pleasure,” he drawled.

She hesitantly shook his hand, grip laughably smaller than his. She was fair, but looked tanned next to his milky skin. “Yes,” she breathed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and then he released her. That was the only way John could describe it – it was almost as if he was forcing her to engage, if the lack of color to her cheeks was anything to go by, and then suddenly let her free. The air calmed marginally.

“John, I’ll meet you back at the hotel tonight,” Sherlock murmured, eyes never leaving Mary. It was almost a surrender. “Mary, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said stiffly.

John felt caught up in the beginnings of a violent storm. Sherlock dropped a hand to his good shoulder, gently kneading in a goodbye, before departing. When the door closed, Mary’s frame totally relaxed, and it was as if Sherlock was never there.

“So,” she said, lips quirking. “Dinner?”

 

*** * ***

 

Mary didn’t have a car, and Sherlock took the jeep, so everyone packed into Gillian’s minivan to head down to Red Lake.

Thomas, single father of two girls, used to have shaggy blond hair. Now, he was sheriff for Stansex. Darcy had always been the funniest of the group, and now she was recently engaged and unemployed, her fiance a realtor. Ronald ‘Ronnie’ was the ginger boy that cried whenever he lost a game, who became a pediatrician and father to nine (!). Gillian was one of the teachers at Stansex for the primary grades, the class size this year up to a whopping sixty-three. And last was Mary, John’s first best friend (and crush), who had grown up helping her mother run the bed and breakfast.

Five different people with five different circumstances, and yet they were all drawn back to living in the village. It was a nice village, to be fair, the population growing steadily as the main cities grew larger and more people discovered the beauty of the moors.

But was there something about Stansex that didn’t meet the eye, a deeper meaning that drew the residents back in? He could feel it, feel the yearning to stay instead of return to London. It was insignificant enough that John could ignore it, knowing that his home was in the greater city, but the magnet to his blood still stood.

At the lake, sitting amongst an array of stone ruins, John questioned it.

“So,” he began, beer in hand. It was nice to spend this time with genuinely friendly people, those who expected nothing from John so he could just lie back and soak it all in. “You’ve all stayed in Stansex, then?”

A murmur of agreement. “It’s home,” Thomas said, simply. “I couldn’t imagine raising my girls anywhere else.”

“It’s wholesome,” Gillian added.

John nodded, taking another sip. The chatter began to disperse into something more casual, a little gossip and some more venting. It was a cathartic meetup for the group, sure, but John only sat there positively itching to interrogate the story behind a specific ‘myth’ that supposedly existed amongst the moors. Mary, sensing his boredom, nodded him up to take a walk with her.

The land surrounding the lake was flat except for one steep hill, making John feel oddly as if he was back in Afghanistan, where he could see a person walking towards him miles before they arrived. Their pace was slow, and Mary aimed a torch in front of their feet so they wouldn’t trip over any rocks. John cleared his throat.

“Got any scary stories?” He asked playfully, keeping his tone light. There was only one story he was interested in, but to give Mary credit, she seemed to realize that.

“Sherlock Holmes, right?” She said, smiling something conspiratorial. A rush tinged at John’s blood at the name, and he could only mutter his agreement. She continued on. “He’s not a very well-known legend, to be honest; it was only truly popular in our grandparents’ generation. It died off enough so that people our age in the village tend to know of it, but not pay it any mind.”

“Grandparents’ generation?” John asked too quickly, unable to hide his skepticism. That was simply impossible – the time frame didn’t add up. Sherlock wouldn’t even be alive yet.

Mary nodded enthusiastically, hair brushing her chin. “Definitely. I once heard my nana tell my dad about it. I asked her, once, but she avoided the subject.”

“What did you hear?”

She paused, and then laughed hesitantly. “It’s… well, it’s just a scary story, you know? Something to scare the kids from staying out late.”

No, John wasn’t going to lose this. Not a chance. Thinking on the fly, he reached out his free hand to grab Mary’s and squeeze, fingers threading through hers. He kept the franticness out of his face and words. “Please,” he asked, letting a smile curve his lips. “I’d love to hear it, regardless.”

In the dark, her blushing cheeks seemed almost maroon. Blinking away the surprise, she gripped his hand back. “Well, alright.”

After a moment, she began. “There are a lot of legends on Dartmoor, as you know. The main one that people know of are the hounds. There’s a whole Wikipedia article for sightings of the hounds, the ghostly black dogs that suck the energy from the trees. All nightmare rubbish. Stansex was built off of the myth, at first as a protection from the dogs. If everything was built from stone, where would the hounds draw their energy? ‘Town of stone’, Stansex means, meaning that it was claimed land. There were never any sightings of any of the various myths in the village, hounds or otherwise. Never any trouble.

“Until Sherlock Holmes, that is. I’d say he came around, what, seventy years ago? The land was sacred during this time, still in an old enough age that people believed in the legends of the moors. He had white skin, and fathomless black eyes. He was looking for his mate, a beautiful woman brilliant red eyes, and he would not stop his frenzy until he found her. Turns out she had been hiding from town to town, leaving breadcrumbs. Like that fairytale. It ended in Stansex.

“If you ask around Dartmoor, you might hear similar tales. Of a cold stranger, more dangerous than the hounds, screeching to the heavens in search of this… thing. This woman. Frightening the townsfolk into their homes, ransacking house to house until he found her. In our little town is when blood was first drawn.

“The woman had seduced a man, convinced him to fall in love with her. From Sherlock Holmes, I’d imagine. He found the both of them in the middle of town and went berserk. From what my grandmother said, Sherlock Holmes ripped the limbs from the man, and began devouring the body.”

John’s throat was ungodly dry, breathing uneven. “Devouring?”

Mary nodded, face grave. “Drained him of blood, in nana’s words. Afterwards, he grabbed the woman and dragged her away. She was screaming his name, ‘Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes’ over and over, hence the namesake of the legend. As they left, nana swears that his eyes were a brilliant red now, to match his mate’s.” She shrugged, and then the spell was broken. She huffed out a quiet laugh. “And then that’s the end of it, I suppose. Almost the end.”

“Oh?” John questioned weakly, using every ounce of his strength to seem nonchalant. “Almost?”

They had almost circled back to the gang, back at the stone rubble. Mary cleared her throat delicately. “Well, the end is more ridiculous than the story.” When John thumbed at her hand, welcoming, she rolled her eyes with a smile. “Well, this part is a bit more vague, but it’s what I heard. A treaty was made after this happened amongst Dartmoor, to protect them against the return of the cold one, the beast named Sherlock Holmes. Witchcraft was involved, if you can believe the credibility. It’s sort of ominous, but basically:

“If Sherlock Holmes ever returns to the moors, namely on Stansex territory, an ancient curse will be freed and, in overall terms, something bad will happen.” She laughed at that, a disbelieving noise. She took his silence as disappointment. “I told you, just a boring old legend. Are you ready to go back to the group, or…?”

She was being suggestive, but John hardly noticed. He was blinking far too fast, and his blood was cresting in waves behind his ears. There were… far too many similarities to simply shake off.

He swallowed.

“I need to go back to Plymouth.”

 

*** * ***

 

John’s skin was still cold when he arrived back to the hotel. The legend itself was lounging on one of the beds, flickering through channels on the telly.

“Oh, John,” he (it) greeted, muting the television on an old sitcom. “Good, you’re back. Tomorrow morning, there’s a fascinating little-“

“What are you,” John blurted.

Sherlock paused as he swung his legs off the bed, head cocked in question. He finished the movements slowly. “Pardon?”

John shook his head, fists clenching and unclenching. His cane was somewhere by the door, his leg completely free of pain. “I… Sherlock, what are you?”

A moment of silence, and then a sigh. The padding of feet. The slide of skin, a freezing hand on a bicep as John was guided down to a sitting position on the mattress. The rustle of clothing as Sherlock crouched in front of him, hands resting on John’s knees.

“Tell me,” he murmured in that honey voice, eyes welcoming. Falsely approachable. John closed his eyes for a moment and fisted at the bedclothes before he could fall into the trap.

“I used to think you were a ghost,” John said tightly. “When we first met. Every adjective I connotated with you was something along the lines of inhuman. The fact that the only way to describe you, was to describe the opposite of what you should be. The opposite of a human.” He held those silver eyes in his, trying to enunciate his words through his stare. “You are a legend in Stansex, you know. Seventy years ago, you are said to have arrived and slaughtered an innocent life. You are not allowed back on the territory, Mary told me. If you step foot in Stansex, something terrible will happen.” He swallowed, voice wavering. “It makes a man think.”

Sherlock was oddly quiet, his face shuttered off. His hands were firm on John’s knees. “And your conclusion?”

John leaned down, feeling a sick sort of thrill at looming over the man. His hands steadied on those broad shoulders. “If you’re not human,” John said, “Then what can you be?”

The legend blinked, once, and let his gaze slide to somewhere an inch to the left. “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured. “And Stansex has a very good memory.”


	8. nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Tore a man limb from limb', Mary had said. John thought of the car accident, where Sherlock stopped the vehicle with just his hand. The legend Mary told him was believable because it was ingrained facts that John already knew, facts that she knew nothing about. Which brought him towards his second thought: What was he going to do if the legend was true?

_“Stansex has a very good memory.”_

John short-circuited. His hands were frozen around the shoulders of the man crouched in front of him, as if they were held together by magnets. Sherlock’s pale eyes were looking at anywhere but him.

“You’re kidding,” John whispered, squeezing the muscles beneath his fingers. They yielded slightly, like a cast made of thin metal. “You’re making a joke.”

Sherlock didn’t move, save for his eyelids fluttering closed and lips trembling around his voice. For the first time John had ever remembered seeing, Sherlock looked _scared_. Scared of _him_. “As you wish.”

“I don’t think you… no, you don’t understand. What you’re saying. Seventy years ago, before my _mother-_ no. _Murder,_ Sherlock. Blood-drinking, killing, devouring. Just…” John was hyperventilating, a voice in his head informed him. He was trying to focus, grasping at the disembodied memories from Red Lake, from the story that Mary had told him. From the _legend._ “You’re impossible. You can’t exist.”

“As you wish.” The baritone wasn’t even a baritone anymore, something breathier and weak.

Despite himself, John let his forehead drop down, not quite touching Sherlock’s save for an inch. “I want to go back home.”

Delicious breath washed over his lips as Sherlock sighed. “As you wish.”

So, as a conclusion to both the most important and the most horrifying day of John’s life, they checked out of the hotel at one o’clock in the morning and left for London.

When John came back into his body, he was seated at the table in 221B.

The facts. Yes, that’s where John needed to start. The bare basics, the things he knew before he even _brushed_ at what he didn’t. He was alone, now, the bleak beginnings of morning peeking through the curtains and slanting the sitting room in washed-out shades of blue. Sherlock, with endless patience that had only emerged during these past few days, respected John’s need to be given breathing room.

In the car, John pretended to be asleep, but he knew he didn’t fool anybody. Least of all himself.

Sherlock was gone for the day, saying that he would not return until late. To not wait up. John hadn’t responded, which was apparently good enough. He couldn’t remember.

Grounding the heels of his hands into his eyes, he opened up his old medical notebook to a blank page. He found a Sharpie on Sherlock’s side of the table’s clutter, and uncapped it with his teeth. At the top of the page, in neat, block letters, he wrote: **SHERLOCK HOLMES.**

A decent start. He began with what he knew about the (thing) man:

**His eyes change color. It correlates with his trips to France, whatever goes on over there that sends him from near-death to healthy.  
**

**He has low iron. Allegedly.  
**

**I’ve never seen him sleep. I’ve seen him pretend, but never actually sleep. He could just be sleeping whenever I’m not around, but there have been no overlaps.  
**

**He can eat food, but what he subsists on shouldn’t be enough. He’s thin, but not dangerously so.  
**

**He used to have a drug problem according to Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know what to do with that.  
**

**He can deduce anyone at a glance, except for me. I don’t know how his methods work, but the thought that it can turn off for one person is disconcerting.  
**

**He is exceptionally beautiful. This isn’t admiration – just an objective view. Anybody can tell that he has zero physical flaws.  
**

~~**Seventy years ago, he went into Dartmoor and killed a man by ripping him apart limb from limb and drinking his blood.** ~~

_“… Fuck.”_ John ripped the paper from its spiral, crumpling it in his fist. No. Breathe in, and out. Trying to calm his tensing muscles, he slowly straightened out the sheet and set it to the side. The facts, Watson. Focus on the facts. The clean new paper on the spiral was daunting, so John pushed the notebook to the side as well and powered on his laptop.

He felt ridiculous. More than ridiculous. John was a firm advocate of the physicality of the world, a doctor of man and a believer in the human body. He shouldn’t be thinking the thoughts he was having.

And yet… ‘signs of vampirism’, he typed into Google.

The computer hummed as it worked, and when the results loaded, one of the links caught his eye. ‘How to know if you are a vampire’. It sounded fake, rudimentary, but that’s all John had at the moment. He quickly scanned through the list.

_Pale skin… naturally strong… look young for your age… senses more enhanced…_

Those were the only ones that stood out. The rest were bordering on irritating, like ‘does sunlight burn’ or ‘do you like the taste of human blood’. There was even some rubbish about magic and energy-sensing. Growling under his breath, he opened a new tab with a jab of his finger.

He would have to approach this at a different angle, it seemed.

Sherlock, alike to John, was a man of science. He would never be content with being a creature of… well, supernatural means. _If_ that’s the case. So, John would have to appeal to the more traditional side, to the biology behind it all and how it could _tangibly_ exist. When something is so far out of the ordinary, there has bound to be some citations on the matter. So, simply, John typed:

‘Historical traits of vampires’.

A relevant URL appeared, and he dove right in.

Legends upon legends of vampirism around the world sprung up, alphabetized but too numerous to scan through manually. John took advantage of the search bar.

‘Sleep’, he typed. Articles about sleeping during the day and such were the majority, but John found a bit of a gem nestled in an article about a Filipino legend:

_‘The Aswang can live a normal life during daylight hours. At night however the creature is led to the houses of its victims…’_

John’s tongue peaked out between his lips as he jotted the quote down on his notebook page. Next, he searched ‘cold’.

 _‘… no internal core warming the body, so their skin will feel cold in comparison to a normal person's skin.’_ Vaguely sourced from European folklore.

John’s hands, growing frozen as they gripped Sherlock’s skin. Frigid.

‘Pale’.

The Japanese legend of the Gaki. _‘Pale skinned, cold, with hollowed features… impersonate living people perfectly.’_

Sherlock embarrassed, voice stuttering. Face more blue than pink and never a blush. The color of snow.

More.

‘Strong’. John’s hand, gripped around the pen, flew across the notebook page.

_‘In Croatia, the pijavica… led an evil and sinful life as a human and in turn, becomes a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer.’_

Seventy years ago, limb from limb. John, striking his head on the curb as Sherlock pushed him out of the way of the incoming car. His hand outstretched, paint under his nails, a dent in the metal. It should’ve taken roughly _at least_ half a minute to manage the steps and the traffic; John had tested it, later. Less than five seconds from the flat to across the street, that was what Sherlock had managed.

John’s brow was low over his eyes, permanently etched in disbelief. His hand shook. ‘Beautiful’.

Portugal. _‘Said to appear as a beautiful… and leads a normal human life by day… is said to be impossible to kill.’_

Impossible to kill. Never a scratch on his skin, never a flaw. Always pristine.

In his lungs, John’s breathing was shallow.

_‘The Estrie is considered to be an incorporeal spirit of evil that has taken the form of flesh and blood, and lives among humanity to satisfy its need for blood. Its favorite prey is said to be children, although no one is considered safe when it needs to feed.’_

Sherlock beneath him, his hands pressing harsh lines into John's shoulder blades. His cold lips trailing along warm skin, bathing the room in his irresistible scent. A kiss to the carotid artery. His eyes are a deep red, and his hair is endless as it brushes John’s jaw. Fog surrounds them. A hiss, the cool rasp of a frozen tongue on his flesh, and then a throaty, baritone sound, then the sting of sharpened fangs as they dig into his neck and John _screams-_

John slammed the laptop closed and wretched it away, chest heaving under the pressure. He pressed a fist to his chest to keep the panic from bursting, his heartbeat pounding against his fingers. His bones throbbed with his veins.

It was quiet outside, early Sunday mornings not yet yielding much traffic. He was frustrated at the world for not being louder, as at least that would make some sort of sodding _sense_. He closed his eyes with a helpless sound, letting his head fall into his hands.

He needed to breathe, to take lungfuls of the London air, but he couldn’t be around people right now. If Mrs. Hudson chose right now to enter the flat, John was sure he’d fall into a panic attack. The anger was quickly ebbing away into something rawer, a feeling he could peel away at until painfully exposed. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to ponder on it, at least not right now, so he decided instead to lie down and rest. Somehow. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours – for all he knew, he could have hallucinated this whole damn thing.

Falling into the couch, he cleared his mind as well as he could. But, even on the edge of sleep, he couldn’t shake the flash of fangs and wicked red eyes.

 

*** * ***

 

Since John’s subconscious seemed to think that he hadn’t had enough horror for the day, his sleep was filled with nightmares.

Namely, one. It was in the familiar moors of his childhood, the setting that frequently made an appearance whenever he closed his eyes for too long. It wasn’t nighttime, though; rather, it was the time right before sunrise but after the night began to let up, when the sky was a dusky palette of colors wide across the horizon. Twilight.

John was running, stumbling over foothills and past trees in his haste. Was he running from something? Towards something? All he knew was that he was sprinting, his legs free of pain, and he felt physically incapable of stopping.

“John!”

He was suddenly still, and the moors were alit with the morning sun. Mary stood in front of him, hands gripping his arms and eyes wide with terror. She was hot as an iron, a searing pressure against his skin as she shook him.

“You have to run! John, run!”

He stood firm, as unchanging as he had been while sprinting through the moorlands. His feet were as a part of the ground as the trees were, and he looked at Mary desperately. “I can’t.”

 _Wrong._ With a scream, she collapsed and began convulsing in the grass, and John could only watch in fright, cold dread dripping into his stomach like syrup. He _couldn’t fucking move,_ couldn’t- An inhuman groan, and then in Mary’s place was a great black hound, translucent in the morning light and baring its gigantic yellow teeth. Its shoulders were at John’s head, and dominant fury seemed to ripple away from its fur, thick with hostility. With a growl it ran off into the forest, on the chase, and then…

London, at night. John couldn’t recognize the street, but he could always recognize the city. Fog misted the ground, streetlights dim, and that’s when he was able to narrow down the reason behind his uneasy feeling.

He was just standing there, unyielding, the moon much larger in his mind than in real life.  As part of the ground as the skyscrapers were. Waiting. Completely alone.

No, wait. Not alone.

Sherlock was at the far end of the street, and then in a step he was right there, forehead pressing to John’s and canines extended against his lips. His eyes were that same crimson John had imagined earlier, only he looked as though he had just stepped out of the flat on any given day, wearing his favorite coat with his royal blue scarf. An urban vampire.

 _Vampire._ The word pulsed in the air, and Sherlock grinned that absolute perfect crooked smile, one cheek dimpling. “You’ve deduced it,” he murmured, suddenly ducking his head to lick a cool stripe up the side of John’s neck. “I knew you were different.”

“I’m not,” John protested, unable to tamper the spark of arousal at the touch. His hands hesitantly bracketed Sherlock’s angular hips, and then gripped them as tight as possible. “I’m the same as the others.”

He could feel a delicious huff at the carotid artery. “You’ve figured out the best-kept secret of humanity by your own means, just by observation. Sherlock will be proud.”

“The real you isn’t human,” John said weakly. An arm snaked around his waist.

“Him and I are, on the outside. Think of the science.” He pulled back, slightly, to meet John’s half-lidded gaze. “There is no magic involved, no hypnosis nor supernatural means. We are as much of nature as you are, because how could we exist if we weren’t?” He pushed closer. “You are, easily, the only human at the moment to know of our existence. The real me has killed the others.”

“Is this the part where I die?” John whispered, curiously unafraid.

Their lips were touching, just barely, and Sherlock said the words directly into John’s mouth.

_“Wake up.”_

 

*** * ***

 

When John awoke, it was to the vestiges of evening and a still-empty flat. Thoughtlessly, he stuffed un-socked feet into his shoes and fled into the city.

 

*** * ***

 

In London, there was room for doubt. Filled with people that were decidedly _not_ so delusional into believing in the existence of vampires, John could ponder over the past twenty-four hours without bias.

It took five minutes to walk off the persistent arousal that had _popped up_ as result of his dream. If there were any doubts remaining on his attraction towards men (see: a man), they had to be fully gone by now. Fifteen minutes before he was far enough away from the flat to breathe clearly. After forty-five minutes, he realized he was walking without a cane. He pushed that to the back of his mind before his leg decided to react to the news itself.

He hadn’t brought his keys or his phone with him. His gun was… somewhere. He vaguely remembered storing it back into his room after he returned from Devon, so at least the illegal weapon wasn’t strewn on the couch in plain, no-warrant-needed sight. Point being, the walk was entirely spontaneous, and he almost chastised himself for being so single-minded. His bare feet were blistering against his shoes, but that was the least of his problems.

Truer words have never been notioned. In the open, with normal people who had normal problems passing by him on the sidewalk, it was easy to focus on the things he needed to know rather than the things he already knew.

First: was what Mary said true?

Google had yielded no results to Sherlock’s name, nothing that wasn’t related to the man’s current work. That was odd – while Stansex was a tiny, irrelevant village, a death had supposedly occurred. John had eventually given up the physical search, instead turning the battle inwards to try and explain it all. Again, nothing of value resulted.

Now, with air to breathe, John could settle. Mary treated it as just a legend, something that was created solely to terrify people. Granted, any sane person would treat it the same as well, but John was slightly insane, so the legend was being treated as an academic source. But in the style she told it, there was no room for interpretation: it was just a story, and nothing more.

Although, her terrified reaction upon meeting Sherlock and Sherlock’s late-night admittance were completely separate points. Those were the points that gave the theory merit. That somehow, Sherlock was a creature of myth whose eyes turned colors and who was strong enough to tear a man in half. Those were true points, concerning Sherlock; John thought of his monthly visits to France (if that’s what they even were), and his eyes whenever he returns. He thought of the car accident, where Sherlock stopped the vehicle with just a hand.

The legend was believable because it was filled with truths that John already knew. Truths that Mary wasn’t even aware of. Which brought him towards his second thought:

What was he going to do if the legend was true?

A sign passed his eyes in the dying light, weathered with time. Highgate Cemetery. He was in Waterlow Park, he realized with surprise. This graveyard was a stark contrast to the one he visited yesterday morning – much more modern, and much darker than the pleasant clearing in Dartmoor. Almost sinister, here. He remembered vaguely that it was supposedly haunted, but he (possibly) roomed with a vampire – he could handle anything. He still missed the weight of his gun at his back, but he was nothing tonight if not reckless. He walked through the gates without a look back.  

It was a new moon, meaning he had to rely on the dim lights in the graveyard as the sky darkened, the lamps throwing long, amber shadows against the ground. Calling Highgate a graveyard was almost insulting – it was a land of the dead, a ghost town, great mausoleums lined up like houses and zealous gravestones made up of intricate statues rather than slabs. As he walked deeper, he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on his neck, goosebumps dotting his arms like freckles. He stopped in place, telling himself that he wasn't scared – the walk back would be over an hour already, after all, so it was only best if he turn back around.

Before he could, a ringing sounded in the wind, just above the rustling of trees.

John turned his head towards the noise – it was coming from a gaping archway, the stone doors of it ajar to the suffocating blackness that lied within it. He realized with a start that it was the entrance to the catacombs; from the time he had visited, back in primary, he remembered that they were off-limits to visitors. He wasn’t ready to oppose the rule. And yet, he couldn’t ignore the sharp tone of the mobile phone, his curiosity warring with the adrenaline.

Warily resigned, he toed carefully through the door and blindly reached inside, feeling for the cool surface of the phone propped up against the slick wall. He kept his leg in the door, making sure he couldn’t get shut in the darkness. Finally getting a grip on the phone, he backed outside where it was (relatively) safe and answered.

“Er… hello?”

“John Watson? Hello,” came a female voice from the other line. Ice wrapped its fingers around his spine when he realized that he was being followed. How the _hell…?_

“Who is this?” He demanded.

“Please hold,” answered instead. After a moment, a male voice came on the line. “Doctor Watson, a pleasure.”

The voice wasn’t familiar, except for the fact that it was. John’s definitely never heard it before, posh and pinched and almost nasal. But it was smooth and immensely pleasant for reasons he couldn’t explain, hypnotic through the cell waves, and John knew without a doubt that the man he was talking to was the same… whatever it was that Sherlock was. He took a chance.

“The brother?” He asked politely, sounding much more calm than he felt. The miniscule pause told him everything he needed to know. Next to Sherlock, John was an idiot, but by himself he was really quite smart; he wasn’t sure why people seemed to think otherwise.

“Sherlock has spoken of me? My, this is worse than I thought.” He continued on before John could respond. “As of now, my brother is tearing himself to pieces trying to find you. You left in quite the haste, you know, door wide open and cane forgotten. Looks an awful lot like an abduction, you see.”

_Shit._

“Shit,” John said.

“Nicely put,” the brother replied with a sniff. “Now, regarding your involvement with Sherlock, I’m afraid that it’s high time I take this… predicament into my own hands.”

John cocked his head, though the man couldn’t see. “You’re going to kill me,” he said.

“Too messy, I’ve got enough blood on my hands as is. You know too much, though, getting too close to what I am. To what Sherlock is. Your search habits are very telling, good doctor.”

John blinked, jaw tensing enough to cut steel. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“Don’t take it personal. It’s just a precaution, one that has deemed itself useful regardless. Now, concerning the immediate future, I suggest that you begin running.”

Alarm singed his veins, making his spine straighten and his shoulders set. “What for?”

A lengthy sigh, as if to bemoan the idiocy of the human race. A fitting description. “Because, Doctor Watson, while I myself am not going to kill you, I know of some nearby men that have orders to in reward of a healthy sum. They only have one job to do.”

Wait. What?

 _“You hired men to kill me?”_ John nearly shouted, hand reaching up to fist at the back of his neck. He spun around in place, eyes scanning the grounds. “Why?”

“You know why,” the brother said quietly. There wasn’t any pity or regret in that smooth voice, but there seemed to be some softer emotion in play. “You’re getting too close to the truth. We’ve survived this long by keeping our existence a secret, and it’s how we live. How we survive. The men are nearing the Circle of Lebanon now.” John had passed the landmark earlier, recalling the curve of tombs around a great cedar tree. It wasn’t very far. “So, once again, I suggest that you run the opposite direction you came.”

Questions raced around his skull, but John only voiced one. “Why are you helping me escape the men you hired to kill me?”

A moment of quiet, and then the voice was almost gentle. “Because I need to determine if you’re worth the effort or not.”

The call cut off, and when John checked the screen, it seemed as though the phone went dead with it. With a growl, he tossed the cell into one of the bushes before shifting into soldier mode, the one who could sit still for hours in search of the sound of a pin dropping.

Unfortunately, the drop came quicker than he thought.

“Boss said he’d be near the crypts,” came a gruff voice, far enough away that the words were faint but close enough to hear the slight footfalls beneath it.

There are two – no, three – others, outnumbering John significantly.

John could find a mausoleum to hide in until dawn, when the visitors would begin arriving and he could fade into the crowds. He could keep hidden, in fear of the men just tombs away with orders to end his life. It would be an apt place to die, very convenient overall. He could curl up under a haunted nook for the night and hope for the best.

Or he could go back to 221B.

Gritting his teeth, John kicked off the pavement and began to run.

 


	9. highgate cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, let him go,” John ordered, hands patting the man's cheeks to bring him back to the present. “Look at me, right here. I’m right here.” Sherlock didn’t come down from wherever he was all at once, rather in intervals, his body wracked with shivers. “John,” he breathed. A pause, and then his charmingly vulnerable features went harsh again.

_Run._

Every time John’s feet hit the ground, he felt the impact in his teeth. He whipped through the cemetery, flying past tombs and scenery that _could_ be beautiful, if not for the frenzy he was caught in, keeping his eyes straight ahead in single-minded focus. He felt terrified. He felt exhilarated. He felt _alive_.

This part of the cemetery was unfamiliar, but essentially the same as the rest of it. Why he was following orders from the man (Sherlock’s bloody brother!) who had hired people to kill him, he hadn’t the faintest. All he knew was that the paths were clearly marked, and while there were no signs pointing to where the exit was, it was easy enough to guess. The smaller walkways all forked into the larger ones, again and again – following this formula, he’d eventually make it back to the entrance he came in from in the first place.

Hopefully.

The men were aware of him, their voices alarmed and their own feet slapping against the pavement in their chase. When he took off running, he hadn’t used any stealth, just an animalistic need to flee; it resulted in unavoidable noise. He pushed harder.

He could see the roof of a chapel up ahead, the foremost spire tipped high and imperious towards the smoggy night sky. John thought that he _might_ be near the entrance, trying desperately to remember if chapels were usually built at the front. Maybe. It would make sense, anyway. He ignored the paranoid feeling of feet ghosting at his heels, knowing that the men were still a good bit behind him.

They were closing in, though. John had to focus on the fact they were trying to kill him to keep up his determination and, even more importantly, his sprint.

 _There_. Oh, thank god. The cemetery's gates were wide open with the gleam of the London streetlamps just beyond, the after-dinner traffic louder than the sound of the blood rushing through his ears. He nearly sagged with relief.

Nearly. Then a man stepped from the shadows and into the light, arms crossed over a thick chest, and John’s heart slicked down to his stomach. He skidded to a stop. He turned around, maybe to try and find a path back the way he came, but the three men were nearly there, already too close to skirt around.

Trapped. He was trapped, like an animal.

“It’s not worth it, mate,” John tried, eyes scanning the skyline as if it would miraculously provide a ladder up to a rooftop that didn’t exist. Surprisingly, none existed. The man in the gate took a step forward, slow and patient, and his smirk became visible in the light.

He wasn’t resigned, this man, was in no way dutiful about the task at hand. He was _excited_.

“Oh, it’s worth it,” he drawled.

John licked his lips free of sweat. He was never the first to resort to begging, but his sense of self-preservation far outweighed his pride. “Look, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll pay double. It’ll take some time, but-“

“Not possible.”

The extra men finally arrived, and despite their gasping breaths they didn’t waste any time. One grabbed John’s forearms and pulled them back before he could react, yanking them behind his body so tightly that his chest strained outwards, twisting his bad shoulder and bringing him to the brink between ‘painful’ and ‘agonous’. He kept his jaw locked. The man at the gate took another step forward, silent, until he was close enough for John to see the evil glint in his eye.

Did Sherlock’s brother order them not to make conversation, in case John could convince them away from killing him? Seemed likely. He huffed out a breath, moreso irritated than wary. “Go on then.”

The first blow was dull and powerful, a meaty punch to the abdomen that John absorbed the best he could. The next came higher, unprepared, catching his breath sharply beneath his ribs. Apparently his death couldn’t be quick; they had to have some fun with it, after all. Of course. The next punch skid across his face, nicking the skin of his cheekbone open. He tried to kick his feet, to writhe himself out, but another man just simply leaned down to hold his legs together. When the second punch to the gut came, John couldn’t stop the grunt that slipped out.

Laughter scuffled around the group. John raised his head only enough to lock gazes with the ringleader, keeping his eyes steady, and then promptly spit in his face. “Go fuck yourself,” he wheezed.

The brute’s face was almost hilariously offended. John’s arms were snapped backwards even further, and the fury in the air was harsh, tangible, so much so that when a knife was pulled from a pocket, John wasn’t even surprised. It flicked open, and with gleaming teeth the man grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and jabbed the blade towards his lower abdomen.

It never made contact.

A whiff of familiar fragrance, and then the men restraining John were ripped away, like a giant hand from the sky had plucked them up and off. With pure military instinct, John dove forward and immediately disarmed the knife-wielder with a jab to the wrist, kicking out his legs from beneath him. He pressed his foot hard against the man’s throat.

“Sherlock,” John panted, “Took you long en-“

He turned his head, only to find Sherlock holding one of the men in midair with just a hand at his throat. His eyes were as wild as his unruly hair, the latter looking as if he’d been pulling at it with restless fists, and his teeth were bared dangerously, like some sort of wild animal. His feet, for whatever reason, were filthy and bare.

 _He’s going to kill him!_ John delivered a swift kick to the head beneath his foot, just hard enough to incapacitate, and promptly leaped over his body to tackle his friend. Of course, it was like pushing at a brick wall.

“Sherlock, let him go,” John ordered, hands wringing at Sherlock’s to release the wheezing attacker. Well, at this point, the attackee. While John could appreciate the good revenge story, he wasn’t about to sit and watch a man die in front of him. When it became obvious that no amount of prying could ease the hold, John bit his cheek and tried a different tactic.

He side-stepped into the open space beside Sherlock’s outstretched arm, bringing his hands up to cup his angular face. He could feel legs kicking behind him, catching on his clothes, but he did his best to keep steady. “Hey, _hey,”_ he said placatingly, fingers clumsy as they frantically drummed the skin for attention. “Look at me, Sherlock, right here. I’m right here.”

Sherlock didn’t come down from wherever he was all at once, instead in intervals. Barely-there glances, which soon became longer and longer until John felt trapped again, this time in a tumultuous gaze not unlike the crashing ocean waves out deep in the Pacific. Sherlock was shaking very, very minutely, almost as if the frigidity of his own skin had frostbitten him. The man he was choking dropped to the ground. “John,” he breathed.

A pause, and then his charmingly vulnerable features went harsh again, upper lip curling as if to snarl. Without a look back, he braced an iron arm around John’s shoulders and bodily dragged him through the open gate. Parked haphazardly in front of Highgate’s entrance was the jeep, still running, and John was practically stuffed into the passenger seat as if his struggles were as insignificant as a child’s. Sherlock was in the driver’s seat in a flash and the car fishtailed out onto the main road. Horns blared behind them.

John’s chest was still heaving, his clothes still soaked with sweat. “What the _bloody hell_ was that?”

“Say something,” Sherlock snapped instead.

“What?”

“Distract me. Prattle on about nothing and everything so I don’t go back there and-” He cut off his sentence with a strangled sound, writhing in his seat as if his body was at war with his mind, yearning to take action on its own accord. John subconsciously flattened himself to his door.

“Um, yes, alright,” he said hurriedly. He swallowed, eyes darting around the cabin and out the window, catching sight of a Tesco. “We’re out of milk,” he settled on.

Sherlock huffed, a moment of peace in the rolling storm. “You’re the only one who drinks it.”

“There was a dead frog floating in the carton.”

“Oh, right.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a beat, something people shouldn’t do whilst _barreling down the road,_ but the car stayed perfectly in its lane. He opened his eyes with a sharp exhale through his nose. “Nope, didn’t help. Something else.”

“... Okay. Remind me never to go to a Holmes family reunion?”

The car lurched beneath them, like Sherlock’s foot had spasmed on the brake. _“Mycroft! That-”_

He devolved into a string of gibberish, until John realized that he was giving sailors a run for their money in either Russian or a very aggressive dialect of French. His face was still murderous, but he wasn’t warring with ‘the monster within’ anymore, the revelation seeming to ground him to the present and away from swerving around and ripping out a line of throats. But still… something didn’t add up.

“Mycroft?” John asked. “Wait a minute – if your brother didn’t tell you where I was, how on Earth did you find me?”

Sherlock passed right by the main road that would take them back to Baker Street, headed southeast instead in the direction of Canary Wharf. “Your scent,” he clipped.

Oh. John sank further against the door, the events of exactly what happened _before_ his walk to Highgate rushing back to him in a whirlwind. “Right,” he said weakly. “Of course.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine,” John said distractedly, trying to blink himself back into clear-headedness.

“Oddly enough, I don’t believe you.” Sherlock turned his head slightly, studying him and then tightening his lips. Trying to get a read, and ultimately learning nothing new. “You did almost… die.”

He shuddered when he said that last word, but his profile wasn’t pinched in fury anymore. John slowly relaxed enough to shift into his seat normally, even if it meant coming closer to… him. It. He shook his head. “I’ve almost died before, in Afghanistan. I suppose I’m not as scared of the idea as I once was.”

The air was singing. “You were prepared to die?” Sherlock asked quietly, purposefully careful.

“No, god no. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He ran his hands down his jean-clad thighs, wiping off the sweat. “I admit, the knife wasn’t expected, but no, I wasn’t prepared to die. I was prepared to _fight_. It’s amazing how much damage you can do when you trick yourself into thinking you have nothing to lose.”

Sherlock was staring at him with his mouth slightly agape. He shook his head in bafflement, a scoff on his lips, before turning back to the road. Anger wasn’t rippling off of him in waves anymore, so John ventured: “Better?”

His silver eyes closed, just briefly this time, before training back on the road. “No,” he admitted, “But it’ll have to do. For now.”

“For now,” John repeated, incredulous. “Are you going to do something later?”

The atmosphere swiftly thrummed back alive with rage, like thick and foul exhaust clouding the interior, and the steering wheel squeaked as Sherlock’s white hands went even whiter in fists. _“You have no idea - none - what those_ animals _were thinking!”_

“And _you_ do?”

He shifted in his seat, eyes still hard. “It wasn’t difficult to deduce that the ringleader was planning to draw the beating out, nor that the one in red had a gun in his waistband, nor that the tall one was aroused. Not difficult in the slightest.” He leveled John with a peripheral glare. “You’re not invincible, John!”

“Sherlock,” John warned testily.

“No, honestly! First the car accident, and then this… what would you have done if I wasn’t there?”

Now  _John_ was the one stiffening in his seat, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Are you done?” If there’s one thing that John Watson wasn’t, it was a damsel in distress. “I’ve known you for three months, Sherlock, _three_ , and I’ve had over thirty years worth of near-death experiences. By an overwhelming majority, each and every time _I_ saved myself, not wait around for some poncy git with a hero complex to hold my hand.” He crossed his arms. “I’m not _weak.”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant-”

“Oh, I know exactly what you meant-”

“You’d be dead _twice_ over-”

“And _whose bloody fault_ would it be?”

Sherlock jolted, as if run through with an electrical current. His defenses dropped in horror and guilt, neck tendons jerking, and John nearly regretted saying it. But it was true. The car accident John could admit was ambiguous, even though Sherlock had antagonized him enough to make him storm out of the flat and into the street, but what happened tonight was cut-and-dry. Sherlock’s brother had tried to kill him. Sherlock slumped into his seat, all of the energy rushing right out of him and leaving him defeated. “You’re absolutely right, John. I apologize.”

“Accepted,” John said immediately. He’d never hurt Sherlock before, not like this, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m sorry, too. You’re... not a poncy git.”

Despite himself, Sherlock chuckled, if lackluster. “I’m a _bit_ poncy.”

John snorted. “A bit.” And then he cleared his throat awkwardly, but this next part needed to be asked: “What are you going to do about your brother?”

His voice dropped a whole octave, one that John could feel in his spine. “I’ll handle it.”

They pulled into a line of buildings with a proper parking lot, not at Canary Wharf but somewhere smaller and strung up with lights. Sherlock parked directly in front of the foremost one, a sort of Asian restaurant, and John furrowed his brows. “Why aren’t we at home?”

Sherlock shifted the car into park and met John’s eyes, the picture of innocence. “Because we’re here instead.” At John’s unamused stare, he continued, wary. “You haven’t eaten since we were in Stansex, and I have on good authority that human beings require food to survive. Hence, dinner.”

“And you?”

His lips twitched. “Aren’t hungry.”

Inside the restaurant, no one even glanced down to notice that Sherlock was barefoot, everyone too busy staring in wonderment at his face. “Table for two, please. Somewhere a bit private if you don’t mind.”

The hostess seemed surprised that it was for two. “Yes, of course. Right this way.”

There was a corner booth at the very end, nestled against the wall and under a lonely hanging light. The table was so small that their knees knocked together beneath it, but John wasn’t going to object. “I’ll have a coke,” he told the waitress.

“Make it two,” Sherlock said, “and keep them coming.” He grinned John’s favorite crooked smile, and the waitress had to blink a few times before heading back to the kitchen on unsteady feet. John huffed under his breath.

“You need to stop doing that, it’s unfair,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“What you just did. Dazzling people, with your...” He waved a hand in Sherlock’s general direction, clearing his throat.

His head cocked, infinitely curious. “Do I dazzle you?”

John fiddled with a sugar packet and pled the fifth.

The drinks were brought. John found himself drinking more of the coke than he’d think, downing the soda in under a minute, and at the end of it long fingers nudged another one closer.

“Adrenaline,” Sherlock explained. “You need nourishment, even if it’s in the form of… that.”

“I know, I’m a doctor.” He absently sipped at the next one, eyes flickering between the man sitting across from him and the menu, and said, offhandedly, “Adrenaline seems to be a popular subject between us.”

Sherlock purposefully ignored him, eyes already perusing anything that could be observed inside the contemporary little dining room they were in. The few people eating here were nowhere close, but Sherlock stared at them in that unnerving way of his all the same.

Another coke was brought, and John ordered the grilled prawns with fried rice. Sherlock ordered nothing.

“No iron pills today, then?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed, eyes trained somewhere on the far wall. “Unimportant.”

Looks like he wouldn’t be getting any small talk at the moment, then. It felt like the past hour was a dream John had just woken up from, a nightmare that he was still feeling the effects from. Hell, the past 24 hours could be explained away as a particularly feverish hallucination. This, eating out together, could easily be a normal night for them, without context, but the tension that simmered under the surface couldn’t be ignored. Sherlock was very obviously looking anywhere but at him, falsely casual, jaw hard and the line of his shoulders expectant.

When the food was brought, John didn’t disappoint. “So,” he began. “My scent?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighed, and finally looked at John with his face full of wariness. His eyes darted down to the plate, and then back up. “You eat, and I’ll talk.”

John, obedient in the face of some answers, peeled the tail off of a shrimp and popped it into his mouth. Satisfied, Sherlock lowered his voice.

“I have a very keen sense of smell,” he said, toying with the paper wrapper from John’s straw. “Perhaps one of the best in the world. Once a trail is found, you’re remarkably easy to pinpoint.” John knew he looked affronted, because Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, John, it’s nothing bad. Quite the contrary, which is only the more worrying.”

A pea fell from John’s spoon and rolled off the table, and he thought of earlier, of the scrawled-over notebook splayed open on the table. “You’re saying I smell too… good?” 

Sherlock’s fingers steepled together just beneath his nose. He narrowed his eyes. “Let’s take this to the hypotheticals, shall we?”

 _A bit too late for that,_ John thought, and nodded carefully. “Alright. Erm. Let’s say… that there’s this tall bloke named Scott, and a shorter one named Hamish.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t exactly change, but it emitted something fond and ever-so-slightly exasperated with just the corner of the eyes. “Oh yes, that’s certainly ambiguous enough. Right. Scott is what you would call… gifted. His sense of smell is rivaled to none, so precise that he can not only notice, but _tell the difference_ between the various hormones that the brain emits at any given time, in any given person, with his own brain observant enough to deduce the results-”

“- sounds like you’re quite besotted with this Scott fellow-“

“- _Anyways_. Imagine being this Scott, then, who can smell the chemicals in your blood with just enough focus. Who can pinpoint which Indian restaurant you went to three days ago just by the barely-there scent of turmeric still lingering on your teeth, and what brand it is. Usually it takes making eye contact to focus in on all of these different signals, like picking out an individual from a school of fish, but the process isn’t exactly well-documented, even by me. Imagine being so caught up in this world of yours that you disregard the baser of urges that other people like you experience. _John_ , grow up, I’m not talking about sex. Well, a bit. Disregard.

“... Then Scott meets Hamish. The one person he cannot observe like the others, where he can’t tell if his testosterone is higher than normal right now or which park he went to yesterday morning. He can’t detect these things, because the overall _essence_ of Hamish’s main scent is overbearing. It’s… wonderfully horrid. Wonderful because of its _intensely de_ – ahem, I mean the pleasant smell of it. Horrid for its potency. It’s driving me utterly mad, but it makes me feel… it makes _Scott_ feel alive. For the first time in quite a while.”

John’s throat was dry, his plate forgotten. “And this… Hamish fellow. Is he. Well. How does Scott feel about him?”

Pale eyes followed the line of John’s throat as he swallowed. “You’d have to ask him directly.”

“Sherlock…”

He held up a hand, eyes closing. “Not now. I’m… I don’t know, alright? You’ve… opened a lot of doors for me, you see. Doors that have been closed for a very, very long time. I’ve never...” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, almost seeming disappointed in himself. “I’ve never.”

“Do you…” John looked down at his hands, folded together on the table, and forced the next words out. “Do you think it would be safer if we… didn’t know each other, then?”

“ _No!_ ” Sherlock suddenly blurted, emphatically, as if the objection had come from the baser of his being. He tried to mask the emotion in his eyes, turning his head to stare off into the dining room once more, but he didn’t succeed. “It’s a bit too late for that, wouldn’t you say? Though…” he huffed. “Living together has certainly been immensely difficult.”

John eyed him warily. “I’m not leaving 221B.”

He looked back to him and shook his head earnestly. “Neither am I. It’s been… very nice, living with you. A test of self-control, yes, but not something I would readily give up.”

John pushed down the heat threatening his cheeks. “... Likewise.” He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t read too far into his own personalized meaning of ‘self control’. He absently tumbled a shrimp over and over again with his fork. “So. Where does that leave us?”

Sherlock sighed and propped up his elbows on the tabletop, sinking his face into his cupped hands. “That leaves us,” he said carefully, “In very dangerous waters.”

John couldn’t help but set down the fork and reach out to touch his fingers, trying to use his warmth to soak into the pale skin beneath. It was awkward, as John was practically cupping Sherlock's cheek by proxy. The hands tensed, but didn’t move away. “I haven’t said it enough, Sherlock, but… I’m not… whatever happens, I’m not going to shout it from the rooftops. You can trust me.”

He watched him from between his fingers. “At this point, I don’t have a choice anymore. You’ve been much more observant than I had previously thought.”

John felt his lips curve at the edges, and he withdrew his arm. “Should I say thank you?”

Sherlock’s hands dropped to the table so his lithe fingers could drum, his tone warm. “Eat.”

John scoffed, but finished his plate. Not because Sherlock told him to, mind, but because he really hadn’t eaten all day and he was famished. He finished his second coke along with the rest of his rice, and then slapped down his own card before Sherlock could. If he was going to get bossed around, anyway, he might as well pay for his own meal. Sherlock noticed, of course, but only huffed out a laugh at the display.

In the car, John turned on the radio to something droning and aimless, already drowsy from a full stomach and the back end of an adrenaline rush. He was absolutely beat, both body and mind. He was just closing his eyes when Sherlock spoke.

“I’ve said my share for the night,” he said as he pulled into the road, voice carefully nonchalant. “Now it’s your turn.”

 


	10. theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re… pale. Icy. Eat very little. You’re very strong and even quicker. I’ve never seen you sleep, and… well, you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Incredibly, impossibly perfect. It’s just a sort of beauty that doesn’t exist. Can’t happen, not naturally." Sherlock was staring straight ahead, not blinking nor breathing.

_“Now it’s your turn.”_

“I’m sorry?” John asked. What would he have to say, when the man beside him was infinitely more interesting?

Sherlock heaved a sigh at having to repeat himself. “I’ve just told you about my own gift; I’ve never told anyone else, you know. My brother had ordered men to kill you, which means that you know too much.” His eyes flashed against the road. “I would like to hear your findings.”

“My findings,” John said slowly. Sherlock scowled, but didn’t say anything more as John mulled it over.

What John knew wasn’t lengthy at all, but apparently was  _still_ too much. It was only a quick Google search and some introspective daydreaming, to be honest. Worryingly, Sherlock was right: if this Mycroft (?) had ordered men to dispose of him, that meant that whatever John  _did_ know was becoming scarily close to the truth. ‘Scary’ being an apt adjective in this scenario.

So, like any emotionally-constipated British man, John chose to blatantly ignore the problem. “I’ve thought about radioactive spiders.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed in a way that had no right being so adorable. “What the bloody hell does that have-“

“- or kryptonite.”

“I’m not sure that word even exists,” Sherlock protested.

John had forgotten Sherlock wasn’t up-to-date on his pop culture references. “No, it’s just in movies, or comic books, the superhero usually has a strange sort of circumstance that, er, makes him a hero, one of the good guys. Makes him super. Gamma radiation is another good one.”

“Gamma radiation would do nothing more than weaken a human,” Sherlock pointed out. After a beat, his tone was hesitant. “So, you’re classifying me with the ‘good guys’?”

“... Yes?”

He shook his head. “I may walk amongst the angels, John, but don’t think for one second that I’m one of them.” He was pressing his lips together, his brows furrowed in an almost confusion. “I’m… I’m not a good person.”

John didn’t hesitate for a second. “I can’t believe that.”

The stoplight was red, which gave Sherlock a chance to minutely sink into his seat. All of a sudden, exhaustion seemed to take home in every line of his body. “John,” he said. “Whenever I got to the cemetery, I did something. I nearly… the man there, I held him up by his throat, and if you hadn’t interfered…” He huffed out a breath. “I wasn’t doing that for lack of thought.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

The light turned green, but Sherlock kept John’s eyes in his. “I am no stranger to murder. In any definition of the word.”

John didn’t realize when the car began moving again, too caught up in the words still ringing in his ear. Sherlock had killed before? Thoughts of Stansex came to mind, of the legend Mary told, the dismembering of a body and the devouring of blood. Visions so strong he could practically smell the copper tang in the air. He closed his eyes for a brief reprise, tilting his head back against the headrest.

‘Has killed before’ should be a big red flag. A tip off to Scotland Yard, and then a new address in a new city. Just as a precaution. But, then again, John was already all kinds of fucked up, so instead: “Alright. I would prefer you didn’t, but. Okay.”

Sherlock’s jaw was tensed. “It’s really not ‘okay’, me admitting to killing.”

“You’re right, it’s not. But it’s… okay, to me. Probably not to anyone else, though.”

A rush of breath. “And therein lies the problem.” He peeked at John from the corner of his eye. “Excellent job distracting me, by the way, but I am still immensely interested in your theories.”

“Damn,” John said. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “Don’t laugh, then.”

“I will attempt to contain my amusement."

“… Right. Well. Last night in Stansex, you remember, when Mary told me that legend. About you. It feels like ages have gone by, but it’s only been a day. But, anyway, how you told me that ‘Stansex has a good memory’. It’s just, well… set off some sirens, to put it mildly. I made a list on things I’ve noticed about you, the things that are inhuman. In a word.” At Sherlock’s silence, he carefully continued.

“Mary said that you devoured a man’s blood. Drank it. You’re… pale. Icy. Eat very little. You’re very strong and even quicker. I’ve never seen you sleep, and… well, you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Incredibly, impossibly perfect. I’m not waxing poetic, or anything of the like. It’s just a sort of beauty that doesn’t exist. Can’t happen, not naturally.

“So, there was only one creature that somewhat fit these factors you’ve established.”

Sherlock blinked, once.

“Vampire,” John said.

“And?” His eyes trained ahead, shoulders relaxed. If John didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that Sherlock was bored of the conversation.

“I realized that… it doesn’t matter.”

John felt a jolt in the car’s speed (which he was really tiring of), and then Sherlock’s face was twisted again. He jerked his head towards John and spat, “That has to be one of the most  _idiotic things_  that has  _ever_  come from your mouth.”

John was gaping. “So I’m right?”

“ _’Does it matter?’_ ” Sherlock mimed back sardonically, seething.

John tried to placate, choosing his words carefully. “Well, no. Not to me, not if it means us having to part ways and never speak to another again.” He  _definitely_ didn’t want that to happen. “You have to understand, Sherlock, I’ve known that you were otherworldly for some time now. Whether you’re a… vampire or an alien or a particularly tall type of goblin, it’s not much of a shock. Or I’m just currently repressing it all. It’s only that I’m… a bit curious.”

Sherlock ran a troubled hand through his hair, tugging at the curls. The man truly was the master of mood swings, but that much wasn’t new. “Your… theory has merit. Like I said earlier, I keep forgetting that you’re much more observant than others of your disability…” - John supposed that that meant his humanity - “... and I suppose I’ve been slacking off over the years.” He sounded much older than he was, like a tired god roaming the thousand-year memories that spanned across his mind. John took a chance.

“You’re only thirty-six, yes?”

“… Yes,” he answered slowly.

“How long have you been thirty-six, then?”

Sherlock’s lips curled up, despite himself. “A while,” he admitted.

John nodded and tried not to think about it all too hard. “Do you have fangs?”

“Myth.”

“Have to be invited into a house?”

“Myth. Really, John, that’s not very scientific.”

“Alright, alright. Sleep in a coffin?”

“Myth.” He seemed to hesitate. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, I don’t sleep. Can’t.”

“Ever?” John questioned with raised brows. While he  _had_ noticed that he hadn’t ever seen Sherlock actually sleep, he didn’t think that it  _never_ happened. That would be impossible. Well, so would vampirism, so maybe John should forget about what he knew at the moment.

“Ever,” Sherlock echoed.

“Well, I know that you can go out in sunlight.”

“… Of a sort.” They were nearing Baker Street now, though Sherlock was driving a bit slower to draw it out, taking his time. In the car, it was like being in their own world where topics such as these were somewhat valid, if just between the two of them. “I don’t think you’ve ever noticed, but on the truly sunny days, I don’t go out. I stay in the flat, or I’m very careful about where I travel. I don’t perish from direct sunlight, no, but… there  _is_ a noticeable reaction.”

“Oh. Can I see it sometime? This ‘reaction’?”

That damned half-smile. “I’ll show you the next sunny day, bring you somewhere private. Why do you think I choose to live in London? It’s June, and yet I can count the perfectly cloudless days in the past several months with two hands.”

“I see,” said John. “Can you turn into a bat?”

“Question time is over,” Sherlock announced with flourish, shifting into park. They were in a parking garage just a block or two from the flat, in a spot close to the exit. It wouldn’t be a long walk to get back.

When John hopped out, he winced. In the chaos of both body and mind in the past couple hours, he hadn’t really done an injury count. It felt like he had a deeply bruised rib, as well as some tender spots around his abdominals. He lightly brushed his cheek, and the skin there felt rough. Nothing major, just a thin strip of dried blood – the fucker that was wailing on him must’ve had a ring.

“I saw that,” Sherlock pointed out, beside him in a whoosh of air. His light eyes were aimed towards the cut, and John tried to convince himself they didn’t look hungry. “I’ll have to treat it back at the flat.”

A vampire patching up an open wound. Terrific. But, despite that, John was intrigued. Careful in his steps, he led the way back home.

 

*** * ***

 

Sherlock sat John down at the table, clearing off the surface before fluttering off to grab the first aid kit. It had never been properly used, save for the occasional band-aid, so today would be its sort of christening. They began on his face.

The pale hand was just descending, hydrogen peroxide-soaked cotton ball ready, before John lightly grabbed his wrist to stop it. “Really,” he said, “It’s fine if you need me to do this part. I know that blood isn’t your…”

Sherlock’s lips twisted. “On the contrary, John, blood is my entire reason of existence.” Despite the worrying statement, he shook John’s grip off to dab at the scrape. “Just because I’m a vampire doesn’t mean I’ve no self-control.”

Well. There it is. A strange sort of thrill ran up John’s spine, the words finally spoken having a bigger impact on him than he’d have thought. A shiver racked him.

“Stings?” Sherlock murmured.

“No.” John licked his lips, and tilted his face up further to give Sherlock a better vantage. “Just thinking.”

He hummed, utterly focused on the task at hand. “I loathe to ask what.”

“Just… Well. It seems as though I’ve yet to ask the most important question of all.”

“Which is?” He reached for a plaster.

John winced when he taped it up. “Your diet.”

Sherlock didn’t pause his ministrations. “The diet of my kind, or my personal diet?”

“Let’s start with your kind.”

Sherlock rubbed at the swelling around the cut lightly with his bare hands, his skin just as good as an icepack. John sighed in relief. Sherlock seemed to notice, as he didn’t stop the gentle contact. “Cut and dry, my kind should primarily live off of human blood to sustain at the peak of our abilities. A body a week is roughly what a vampire can live off of comfortably. Now, there  _are_ alternatives. I’ve heard of a family in America who feeds purely on animal blood, though the practice is rare. While it’s enough to survive off of, it’s really not enough to thrive.”

John was leaning unabashedly into his touch. “And you?”

“I’m on a third method, one that I’ve developed alongside a specialized group dedicated to eradicating the drinking of blood altogether. You may call this group the British government. Well, some of it. Mostly related to my brother.”

“Your brother is a vampire as well?” John had suspected as much.

“Yes. Mycroft is… complicated.” He sounded worried, but his hand was now doing pleasant things in John’s hair, so John kept his eyes closed. “He’s more interested in the outcome of this new blood surrogate than me, at times. I don’t mind being the test subject, not if it means saving innocent lives in the end, and hopefully clearing up the ‘vampire’ name enough to eventually assimilate into society. This substitute works… in a sense. Every month I go into scientific research facilities in Baskerville for the treatment.”

“Not France?”

He smiled fondly. “No, not France. Yet another clever deduction. Now, where else did they hurt you?”

John blinked his eyes open, shaking out his drowsiness. With the adrenaline crash, full stomach, and dreamlike quality of conversation, it really was easy to fall into sleep. “Mainly my abdomen. More aches than anything, and I’m thinking a bruised rib.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Really, Sherlock, this is what I  _do_ for a living. I’m capable of-”

“Nonsense. Hop up, let me see.”

John sighed and did as he was told, moving to sit atop the table and lift his shirt. He heard Sherlock hiss in a breath and mutter something that suspiciously sounded like ‘bastards’.

John had always loved hearing Sherlock curse, especially since it happened so rarely and that his voice made it sound downright illegal. He couldn’t help a small smile. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m sure it looks much worse than it really is. Nothing’s broken, and I’m fairly sure I won’t be pissing blood.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Sherlock mumbled sarcastically.  

John stared at Sherlock’s face as he prodded John’s abdomen, memorizing the layout and symmetry of the man’s features. The long, elegant neck that curved into shoulders that were surprisingly broad, considering the slenderness of the rest of his body. The oddly invigorating mixture of feminine and masculine – lithe dancer’s fingers and milky skin, met toe-to-toe with a prominent brow and a jawline that could cut glass, running parallel with cheekbones that could do the same. His scent, his voice, his-

“John,” Sherlock said aloud, jolting him from his daze. He hadn’t realized Sherlock had lifted his eyes, John's own unfocused and heady, now widening as if in headlights. He let his shirt fall back over his stomach and felt heat rush to his cheeks.

Pathetic,  _pathetic!_ Obviously ogling his flatmate while getting examined for internal bleeding, nice. “I guess I’ll, er, turn in for the night, then.”

“John,” Sherlock said again, stepping directly in front of him to stop him from sliding off the table. “John, don’t. Not, um, yet.”

He was stuttering. Well, his equivalent of it. Intrigued, John stayed on the table and tried to will his pulse to slow. “… Alright.”

“There’s… something I want to try.” He took a step forward, and John felt his heart jump somewhere in his throat when hips brushed his knees. He opened his legs automatically, feeling the coldness come closer and closer to seep through his jeans. A marble hand reached up to brush John’s cheek, like it had earlier, only this time with aimless intent. “Is this… fine?”

John’s breathing was shallow. "Yes.”

The hips nestled closer, so close that John could hear the baritone vibration when Sherlock spoke. “It’s… imperative that you stay still. Just like this.”

John nodded, once, watching the distance close in with wide eyes.

He felt lips brush his neck, once, twice. His chest rushed with breath. Without thinking, he reached out his hands to the fabric at Sherlock’s waist, for something to hold onto. A breath of amusement at his neck, before a nose nudged the hollow beneath his ear to draw out a long, soft inhale. John felt a shiver beneath his hands.

“Okay?” He asked carefully.

Sherlock pulled back with tight lips. “Immensely difficult, being this close to the only person whose blood is appealing to me. But manageable.”

And then he hesitated. Not in the vampire way, in the way that he would battle between sinking his teeth into John’s carotid artery or not, but in a completely different way, the way that softened his eyes and dropped his lashes, the way that thickened the pregnant air between them, hands settling on the table’s edge. Their foreheads brushed.

He said quietly, “John?”

John’s heart was hammering, but his breathing was slow, lungs pressing against his ribcage and threatening to split his chest in two. His hand rose, sluggish, to brush against Sherlock’s cheekbone, mirroring him, his nails lightly scratching the skin. “I think…” he breathed. "That you're a much better person than you give yourself credit for." 

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head. "I give myself as much credit as I deserve. You're kind." 

"You  _did_ save me, twice," John reminded him. "I think your kindness is a much easier assessment." 

"I could kill you." Sherlock's jaw tensed, eyes darting to the side and swaying his body the barest centimeters back. "I try to be good, John, I  _try_ not to be dangerous. To live off of artificial blood, to find joys in science and detective work, to stay away from humans before they find me out, before they..." He waved a hand in John's direction. "... learn too much. But you. You're... different. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, yet." 

John swallowed down the fear before it could bubble up, along with the disbelief. It was disorientating, having all five of his senses bombarded like this. "I wish you were human," he said. "It would make things much simpler, wouldn't it?" 

It was cool between them, but still, no exhalations coming from Sherlock's closed mouth. Suddenly, he made a soft noise in his throat and dropped his head to John’s shoulder, pressing his face to the fabric there.

“John,” he muttered again, voice rougher than it’s ever been.

It took little thought for John to run his hands up the other man’s waist, to where his shoulder blades jutted through his shirt like wings. He tightened his arms to no give. “Hey, hey,” he said softly, “It’s alright." Human? He was sure that what he said was terribly rude and... species-ist (?), so he hurriedly tried to backtrack on his statement, however truthful it was. "You're... perfect the way you are."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, though it didn’t have much humor in it. He said a string of words, muffled and wholly unintelligible.

“Hm?”

“I’m…” He leaned further, his voice drawing out quietly, at a complete juxtaposition to his words. “I’m awake. I’ve no interest in sleeping, or resting. You…” His voice was utterly defenseless. “You make me want to feel _tired.”_

“Tired?”

Soft curls brushed John’s chin as his head shook, cold hands bleeding through the small of John’s back. “No, not tired,” he said, and the hands curled John’s shirt into fists. “Human.”

Eventually, one of them bid the other night, but John hadn’t the faintest who.

 

*** * ***

 

In the morning, John descended the stairs to the smell of a delicious breakfast, the oily scent of bacon intermingling with eggs alongside fresh coffee. John hoped this wouldn’t be a daily occurrence, as he could definitely get used to it.

“For someone who doesn’t live on human food,” he said with a yawn, knowing (now) Sherlock would hear him anyway, “you certainly know how to cook it.”

“It’s all science!” called Sherlock from the kitchen.

John only smiled, scrubbing a hand over his slight stubble. He was just reaching for the newspaper when there was a tap at the door.

“Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson greeted, holding a stack of papers in her arms. “Oh, don’t mind me. My, Sherlock, it smells wonderful, if I knew you could cook I would’ve invited myself up more often! Here’s the mail for the week, then.”

It was a sizable stack, so John quickly took it from her and dropped it at the mantel. He caught the topmost envelope before it could slide off, shuffling it back on top. “Sherlock, post! Ta, Mrs. Hudson, would you like to join us for breakfast?”

“No thank you, dear, I’m expecting company. Make sure Sherlock cleans up after himself, please.”

Sherlock came into the sitting room as Mrs. Hudson left, clothed in an apron tied haphazardly over his pajamas and armed with a metal spatula. Why did he wear pajamas, John mused, if he wasn’t going to sleep in them? He was otherwise impeccable, as was the way of the world, and it took John much too long to notice that he was watching him with suspicion in his eyes.

“Good morning,” Sherlock finally said, carefully.

“... Morning.”

“Did you sleep alright?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Ye-es?”

Sherlock nodded, blinking around the sitting room as if there was a murderer hiding in its depths. “Good.” He shifted in place. “Do me a favor. Can you… tell me what I am?”

John blinked. “An arse?”

“Oh, funny. My  _species?”_

What was he playing at? “A… vampire?” And then John saw him flinch, slightly, and he registered the gaping space between them and Sherlock’s hesitancy all at once. “Wait a minute… are you walking on eggshells?”

He looked guilty.  _“No.”_

“You thought I’d be  _scared_ of you?”

Sherlock crossed his arms, nearly hitting himself in the face with the spatula. “No, John, but I was  _hoping_  that you’d finally come to your senses so that I could convince you that yesterday was merely a dream.”

John barked out a laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Sherlock twisted his mouth, but stayed paces away regardless. He was studying John, as he oft did, though somewhere between his usual scrutiny and an emotion akin to puzzlement, like he could solve John if he just stared at him enough. Finally, his face cleared like fog from the streets, and he gave a small smile, moreso in his eyes than his lips.

“Good morning, then,” he said again, though this time genuine.  

John couldn’t quite school his mouth from curving up in response. “Good morning,” he replied.

Sherlock ducked his head, oddly sheepish, and fluttered back off to the kitchen. John watched after him in brief puzzlement before shaking his head, ready to open up the paper. Instead, Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to come back into the flat with something in her hands.

“Oh, John, by the way, I found this on the stairs, one of you must have dropped it. It’s so romantic.”

John took the object carefully, minding its thorns. It was a deep blue rose, same as the one they had found at the cemetery in Devon, almost painfully vivid against the gold-toned backdrop of 221B’s interior. He felt his brows pull together. “Sherlock!”

He heard a grumble, and then felt the presence behind his shoulder more than he heard the steps, cold air pressed to his back. From the corner of his eye, he could practically see the wheels in that brilliant mind turn and rattle in confusion. “Stansex,” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

Mrs. Hudson gave both of them a curious glance, before letting out a gasp to totter into the kitchen and finish what Sherlock started amidst the sound of spattering bacon. The pair didn’t move.

“Is someone following us?”

Sherlock  _tsk_ ed. “Hard so say.”

“So a stalker who leaves odd-colored roses? Seems sort of… banal.”

“ _Au contraire,_ good fellow.” Sherlock took the rose easily, not having to worry about pricking his skin. “Unique enough to catch our attention, yet simple enough to pass over others. A flower at a gravesite is common, and it’s easy to confuse a fallen rose as a romantic gesture. If this  _is_ anything related to stalking, it’s genius.”

John watched him oddly, watched the play of emotions on his face like sunlight on a riverbed. “So there’s a possibility that we’re being stalked?”

“Once is chance, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern. Is what they say.” He spared the rose one last glance before dropping it to the mantle, instead meeting John’s eyes excitedly. “I’ll check it out at the Yard, bribe one of the detectives into letting me into the archives. It wouldn’t hurt to see if there’s a history of blue roses floating about.”

“How… sensible.” John’s lips were pursed. “We’ve only seen it twice, though.”

Sherlock’s eyes were bright beneath his fringe, and he honest-to-god grinned, bright teeth flashing and dimple winking and overall reminding John that he lived with an immortal child, one with a propensity for blowing up the kitchen and getting excited for danger and mystery as if it were his birthday. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and jostled him.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my own brand of heroin. Message me at my [tumblr](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) for any and all questions or comments!


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